


Shifting Alliances

by Politzania



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alt-History, Cold War, Do As Peggy Says, Espionage, Gen, Gender Swap (kind of)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-13
Updated: 2016-11-03
Packaged: 2018-05-06 12:42:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5417504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Politzania/pseuds/Politzania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Guess we're both chasing ghosts this time, Peg."</p>
<p>Stark hadn't been able to start the search for Captain America in earnest until after the war. More than a half-decade lost to the tides, the currents and the waxing and waning of the ice.  She didn't know how they could expect to find anything at all now, nearly twenty years later, but her heart still had hope. </p>
<p>As for her ghost, the rumors of a highly skilled agent/assassin for hire had been floating around the espionage world for a dozen years or more. Code named “Winter Soldier”, he was purported to have his loyalties maintained through various brainwashing techniques. No one was sure where he came from or why he had an artificial arm, but it seemed the Soviets currently held his leash.  The latest intel indicated he was after Stark; but as leverage, not a hit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

By the time the meeting was over, she had a bloody headache. Her German was rustier than she'd realized and therefore had to rely on the translator more than she cared for. As her cover ID barely spoke German at all, it worked to her advantage; she could usually tell when the translator was soft-pedaling whatever the executives had to say. At least the meeting itself had gone well. After all, Stark had drilled her forwards and backwards on the material before heading off to the Arctic again. "Guess we're both chasing ghosts this time, Peg."

Stark hadn't been able to start the search for Steve Rogers in earnest until after the war. More than a half-decade lost to the tides, the currents and the waxing and waning of the ice. She didn't know how they could expect to find anything at all now, nearly twenty years later, but her heart still had hope. 

As for her ghost, the rumors of a highly skilled agent/assassin for hire had been floating around the espionage world for a dozen years or more. Codenamed “Winter Soldier”, he was purported to have his loyalties maintained through various brainwashing techniques. No one was sure where he came from or why he had an artificial arm, but it seemed the Soviets currently held his leash. The latest intel indicated he was after Stark; but as leverage, not a hit. 

It wasn’t the first time the millionaire industrialist had been a target. Stark’s involvement (albeit belated) in the Manhattan Project alone justified a revenge killing in some minds. The fact that such a brilliant engineer hadn’t been on the initial research team still bothered her. Roosevelt had been a coward and Truman was an ass. The finest technical mind of the last quarter century had been kept from participating in the most important project of the war... simply because she was a woman. 

And who knows what that delay had cost. Perhaps they could have ended the decade-long conflict several years earlier. Perhaps they would not have had to invade Japan. But the loss of so many millions of men to the terrible meat grinder of multiple fronts had forced a change in society, as had Maria Stark herself. Her arc reactor had sparked a second Industrial Revolution. Machines provided the power and women took new roles in the work force; rising to positions of power, filling in the voids. Not only in business, but in politics, the sciences... and in espionage. 

Margaret Carter (no longer “Peggy”, she had left that name behind) began her career following in the footsteps of Flora Sandes and Edith Cavell. She had served her country and its allies throughout the war; and now led a new organization in a war of words, a war of spies. Covert operations instead of full-scale offenses; surgical strikes kept under wraps. A war of information and technology. Which explained why Stark was a target, and why Margaret was currently impersonating her.

They were a good match, physically - roughly the same height and build, and similar facial features. Stark’s fondness for the Veronica Lake look while out on the town worked to their advantage; very few of the multitude of publicity photos showed the millionaire’s features clearly. Matching her New York accent was easy enough as well, Margaret having had plenty of exposure to those cadences and timbres. 

The attitude was a little harder to assume. Brash and cocky, yet with the skills and knowledge to back everything up. And very popular with the men, even now, into her forties. While still an attractive woman, Maria was aware that it was her money and position that most men were drawn to at this stage of her life. Nonetheless, she did take advantage of it, even if her current boytoy, Howard, seemed to have some staying power. Before she’d left for the Arctic, Maria had confidentially mentioned that she was considering having a child with him. After all, she needed an heir, and she had been funding medical research into in vitro fertilization for years. 

The meeting with the Germans wasn’t the only reason Margaret was in Berlin; she had placed herself practically in enemy territory to offer herself as bait. Stark was worth more as an asset (or at least a hostage) than as a dead body, and she could work with that. The chance to flush the Winter Soldier out into the open was a risk she was willing to take. Especially if he could be turned. 

While Berlin’s reputation as a city of decadence had ebbed considerably, the rich and powerful of both genders could still find ample opportunity to amuse themselves, often at the expense of others. Margaret entered the club through a discreetly-marked entrance; Stark had made arrangements previously, after some research indicated the business had ties to Russian organized crime and quite possibly to whatever was left of Hydra. 

“Good evening, madame. Party of one?” She still bristled a little at the honorific. While it no longer denoted marital status, “madame” or “ma’am” indicated she’d crossed the line from youth to maturity. It shouldn’t matter - a man is a “sir” whether he’s twenty or seventy. 

“Yes - reservation for Stark, Maria Stark.” The maitre’d nodded. 

“Would madame enjoy some company this evening?” She resisted the urge to slap the obsequious almost-smirk off his face. Stark's reputation had obviously preceded her. 

"I should like to practice my Russian this evening, are any of your escorts fluent?" 

"Why yes, we just had a gentleman from Kiev join us here at the club - let me see if he is available." She couldn't help but wonder if it could be this easy. She felt a twinge in her side; the incision for the tracker she carried was still healing. Stark had sworn it had a range of at least 10 miles, but she preferred to play it safe and asked Agent Jarvis to keep the car and receiver within no more than a dozen blocks of the club. 

The escort she was presented with in no way matched the Winter Soldier’s description - too young, too slight of frame. In fact, his blue eyes, dark blond hair and high cheekbones put her a bit in mind of Steve at their first meeting, although this Alexie had a few inches of height on then-Private Rogers. She wondered briefly if her cover had been blown, but then decided she was jumping at shadows. The Aryan look was quite common in this part of the world, after all. 

Alexie was pleasant enough company, their conversation ranging through various inoffensive topics throughout the meal. She indeed practiced her Russian for awhile, then indulged his interest in improving his English. Just before dessert, the maitre'd asked to borrow Alexie for a moment. She sensed some sort of tension, which was bolstered by his return about ten minutes later. He apologized profusely, saying that a family emergency had resulted in Alexie being called away, and management was determining a suitable replacement as they spoke. 

This was, of course, highly suspicious and in other circumstances she would have made her own excuses to depart; however, considering what was at stake, she decided to let things play out. The maitre’d returned, visibly nervous and ostensibly escorting another man to her table. However it was obvious that her new companion was instead the one in charge. And he was both exactly the man she was looking for and the last one she ever expected to see.


	2. Chapter 2

She had never even thought to connect the physical description of the Winter Soldier with James Buchanan Barnes, Steve’s second in command and childhood friend. He had fallen from a train into a deep crevasse during a mission twenty years ago and was presumed dead. With these recollections suddenly whirling around in her head, she was distracted and nearly missed the introductions. 

“I’m sorry, was it Yakov?” 

“Yes, ma’am. May I?” He gestured at the seat next to her. She noted he was studying her with a curious fascination, as if she were an unexpected, precious gift. 

“Of course.” She cast her eyes over him, appraising his looks, as would be anticipated of someone in her position. In reality, she was comparing the man seated in front of her with her mental recollection of Sergeant Barnes. Medium tall, dark hair, cleft chin and grey-blue eyes; all the features matched the description of both the Soldier and the sergeant. She was quite nonplussed. 

Furthermore, he seemed to have scarcely aged, which was improbable at best. Surely she was mistaken, just as she had been with thinking Alexie looked so much like Steve. However, Yakov was wearing gloves; and while it was currently the fashion for young men to do so, it supported the possibility that her quarry now sat right in front of her, no matter who else she thought he was. “I assume you are not originally from Berlin?” she asked him, to start the conversation. 

Yakov returned her gaze with a look that was surprisingly warm to be coming from a stranger, even a paid escort. Their small talk - in which he mentioned that he was from near Smolensk and had come to Berlin to study music - was somewhat stilted as they waited for their dessert order. She had overheard another table ordering cherries jubilee and thought that sounded lovely. The lights were dimmed as the wait staff set the desserts aflame; and all hell broke loose. 

One waiter was apparently standing too close to the curtains, and they caught on fire. In the darkened room, no one knew where the exits were. She had noted them out of habit, and was starting to make her way toward the side doors when Yakov took her hand.

“This way, Ms. Stark. The fire is spreading quickly.” He pulled her towards the servants’ entrance. Admiring his use of the (presumably) unplanned fire, she placed her faith in Maria’s gadget and followed her escort down a darkened hall, through a door that led to the alley, and then into the backseat of a nondescript sedan. 

“My hotel is in Tiergarten, near the Bundestag,” she stated, although she could already tell they were heading the opposite direction, further into the boroughs of East Berlin. While the city was no longer formally divided; it was still very clear which areas were under the influence of the Soviets and they were taking her right into its heart. 

“I am sorry, Ma...Ms. Stark. It is not safe for you to return to your hotel right now.” His posture was tense as he scanned the darkened streets. “You have.... enemies in this city.” 

And I’m bloody well sitting next to one of them, she thought. She kept her persona in place, but allowed her voice to quaver just a bit as she replied, “I don’t understand.... who are you?” 

“Someone who wishes to keep you safe.” He sounded so damned sincere; a true professional. The driver took a corner just a bit too quickly and Yakov shifted as if he’d lost his balance; she felt his hand brush down the outside of her thigh. She guessed that he was checking for a holster. Little did he know she cross-carried, so it was on the other leg. 

She arched her eyebrow at him, and he actually blushed, just a bit. “My apologies.” 

“Well, If you’re going to keep that up, you should call me Maria,” she purred. After all, she was supposed to have been at that club for a bit of fun. The car stopped in front of a nondescript Plattenbau rowhouse that looked to be roughly forty years old. She knew Jarvis had been honing his tailing techniques and trusted he was somewhere nearby, and the tracker would lead him and the other SSR agents to her in good time. 

“Please, quickly.” And as if he were a sheepdog, Yakov herded her out of the car and into the building. They ascended to the third floor, and entered the corner apartment. It was small, but cozy; apparently whatever organization he was working for didn’t skimp on creature comforts for its hirelings. She turned to see him looking at her with a curious mix of longing and bewilderment.

“Has it truly been so long, dearest?” he murmured, moving close to take her in his arms. He brushed the hair from her face, fingertips gently tracing her cheek. Then suddenly she was pressed against the wall, his artificial arm against her throat. “You are not Maria!” he snarled. “You lied... they lied... always lies!” 

Damn and blast! She belatedly remembered the scar Maria bore high on her left cheekbone. Usually covered with makeup, it was another reason she affected the Veronica Lake look. What did it mean that this man knew about the scar? Had her instincts been correct? She took a leap of faith. 

“You know Maria. You... loved her,” she stated, barely able to gasp out the words. This mollified him a little, as the pressure against her throat eased. But his eyes were still fierce, looking steadily into hers. Yes, this was Barnes; she had no idea how, but it was. And it appeared that he and Maria had been having an affair during the war. 

“My handler told me to bring Maria here, to protect her from the Stasi. They would never think we would bring her deeper into their own territory. But he lied; you are not her.” He sounded almost petulant, and she was confused. Surely the Stasi and the Soviets would be working together? Perhaps the Soldier was employed by a separate faction - wheels within wheels. 

“He surely thought I was Maria; that was our intent. She is safe, I promise.” She spoke slowly, and with conviction. “Here - let’s sit and talk. Figure things out.” She had dropped the New York accent, and she saw a flash of surprise on his face.

He stepped back, still watching warily. She made no threatening moves, keeping her hands within his view as she slowly sat on the sofa. “Why should I trust you?” he growled. “Everyone always lies, keeps secrets from me.” He remained on his feet and had started to pace, keeping his eyes on her the entire time. 

“Maria’s middle name is Collins - her mother’s maiden name. The scar you were looking for; she got that thanks to an untested apparatus she was demonstrating to prove to the regents at M.I.T. that she was indeed qualified to matriculate, despite her gender and lack of diploma. She can hold her liquor incredibly well but tends to get a bit foul-mouthed when tipsy.” 

He stopped pacing and nodded, his posture relaxing slightly. “And her nickname?” That was much too easy. 

“You mean Miss Chief? That she certainly was.” Colonel Phillips had called her “nothing but mischief”, after she’d flown Steve behind enemy lines to rescue the men of the 107th. And as she’d done for most of her life up to that point, Maria had modified the insult to her advantage. 

“So maybe you know Maria after all. Why are you pretending to be her?” He loomed over her, but she remained calm. 

“I was sent here to flush out an enemy. It seems I may have discovered a friend as well. Now, show me I can trust you. Tell me what you know about Maria.” She began to suspect the deceptions ran deeper than any of them had thought - to send this particular agent after this particular target appeared to be too much of a coincidence. But to what end? 

“I... I have a hard time remembering things. Your.. her name meant nothing to me, until we met at the club. But then, I knew her. Knew she had been important to me. And the things you said earlier... I knew them after you spoke, but not until then. Except her nickname, it was on a sketch of her that someone.. .a friend ... drew for me. I remembered that.” He had relaxed further as he spoke, and she finally saw a hint of the boyish charm she remembered from the war. 

And he’d hit on something she had forgotten. Steve had sketched a pin-up of Maria in the style of the art on nose of the Yank flyboy’s planes, with the title “Miss Chief”. She’d assumed he'd drawn it as a lark, to tease Maria. She’d had no idea it had meant something more 

“What else do you remember? Perhaps the name Maria called you? You weren’t Yakov then, were you?” And that relaxed posture was now gone; he was back on guard. 

“I have had many names. My handlers call me Soldier. I need no other identifier.” The rumors of brainwashing were apparently correct; it made her ill to think of what they had done to this young man, to have twisted him so. And still so young - how was that possible?

He resumed prowling the small apartment; she had hoped their conversation would calm him, but it proved to have the opposite effect. “Who are you?” he asked brusquely, after some moments of silence. She wasn’t quite sure she was ready to tell him, but she also did not want to lie. 

“My name is Margaret. I have worked with Maria for a number of years. She is a dear friend, as well. She knows about my purpose here; that I am impersonating her.” 

“So, you are important to her, to her company?” She wasn’t sure where he was going with this question, but when she answered yes, she supposed so, he nodded. “I must confirm this change in mission parameters. You may not be as valuable to the cause as Maria, but you can still be of use.” 

He moved towards the corner table, where the telephone stood, once again keeping his eyes fixed on her.


	3. Chapter 3

“You don’t have to do this, Sergeant.” She knew that longer she could keep him separated from his handlers, the better chance she had at getting him on their side. After all, that was why she was in Berlin to start with. Discovering that the Soldier was a link with her own past, well, that was something else entirely. 

“Why do you call me Sergeant?” 

“Because I know the man you were. The man you could be again. Let me help you.” She put every ounce of sincerity that she could muster into her voice. 

“No. You... I can’t. My handler will be expecting a report soon. I will be punished if I do not comply.” 

“If we leave now, I can get us somewhere safe. You don’t need to report. You won’t be punished.” 

“It doesn’t matter. They would come for me. I am a valuable asset. Much time and effort has gone into my training. They saved my life. I owe them everything.” All expression was gone from his voice and his face; it was as if he were reading the words off a page. 

“You owe them nothing. You are their weapon, Sergeant. They would use you up and cast you off without a second thought.” She spoke more sharply than she intended, and his eyes narrowed. 

<”You are my mission. I must comply.”> Speaking in Russian now, he reached towards her. She twisted away, but he was faster, grabbing her right wrist, forcing her to sit back down. His grip was like steel. She looked up to meet his eyes. 

“Please, James. Don’t.” He flinched at her use of his true name and she counted that a small victory. 

 <”Do not try to escape, or I will be forced to harm you. I must make my report.”>

She had to be willing to use every weapon in her arsenal, but it felt like a betrayal in more ways than one. She slowly rose to stand closely in front of him, letting her eyes widen slightly. She rested her free hand on his cheek and kissed him. 

She hoped that her application of the Sweet Dreams lipstick during the drive to the apartment, would still be effective. She felt his grasp on her wrist loosen as he stumbled backwards, eyes rolling up in his head as he collapsed on the chair. 

Margaret quickly tapped out an SOS on her tracker as she frisked Barnes for weapons. Two pistols and good lord, the man had knives stashed everywhere; his outfit had obviously been customized for his particular calling. She spent a few moments marveling at his artificial arm; removing the glove to examine his hand. She took several photos with the camera she had concealed in her evening bag. Stark would be intensely interested in the prosthetic, even more so when she discovered to whom it was attached. 

She was debating whether to bind Barnes’ hands or wait for her backup to bring handcuffs when he started to stir, much sooner than she had expected. She quashed a momentary flare of panic and moved closer to the door, placing the sofa between them. She waited, praying she wouldn’t have to use the man’s own firearm against him. She knew her hand to hand skills would not protect her for long, but she would shoot only if absolutely necessary.

Cursing under his breath, Barnes shook his head to try to clear it. Glancing up from his semi-prone position, he shot her a look of resentment and anger. He stood, swaying slightly as he rose, and reached for a weapon that wasn’t there. They heard the front door to the building being forced open, and men’s voices. She waited for the signal from her fellow agents, while Barnes seemed torn between fight and flight. 

They realized simultaneously the voices were speaking German and were therefore a shared enemy. She tossed Barnes the Makarov she’d just taken off him, and drew her own weapon. Catching a surprised look on his face, she replied, “You checked the wrong thigh.” She knew she was taking a huge chance; she’d just given a deadly weapon to a man she’d deceived with a drugged kiss. But she trusted her intuition; that there was enough of Barnes left in this man to keep her safe, at least for the moment. A half-dozen men burst into the room, shouting at them both to surrender. That wasn’t going to happen. 

She was aiming to wound, to disable; but it seemed her partner had no such compunction. She remembered his skill as a sniper, but he was as deadly with a gun in close quarters. There was a buzzing sensation in her side; a belated response to the hasty SOS she had sent. She suddenly feared for Jarvis and the agents - what if Barnes assumed they were more Stasi? 

The shooting stopped, and she counted the bodies on the floor. There were six men, four of whom were still, the other two writhing in pain. She glanced at Barnes, who cocked his head and made a “wait” gesture. He stalked silently to the door, peering out around the doorjamb. He stood stock still for a moment, then relaxed. “Looks like that was all of them.” She took it as a good sign that he was speaking English again. 

“Don’t be alarmed, but I have some friends on their way.” 

“Is that so... and how did they find out where you are?” His voice was hard, as he bound the hands and feet of the two survivors, then gagged them. 

Again, she spoke as much truth as she thought she could safely tell. “I have a tracking device and I signaled them while you were ... incapacitated. I am not sure how many of them are coming. I would imagine at least two, and perhaps four or five.” She didn’t think they would send more than one car, nor would Jarvis have come alone. 

“How soon will they be here?” 

“I should think they’ll arrive any minute. So, James - the offer still stands. Will you come with me?” 

He looked over his pistol, as if weighing his options. She didn’t think he had enough shots left to take on her men, but he only needed one if he planned to take her hostage. 

“No. But you haven’t seen the last of me, sweetheart.” He turned, and within three strides had crashed through the window, jumping for the roof of the adjacent building. He landed, rolled and was back on his feet and running into the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

The events of the evening finally catching up with her, Margaret sat back on the sofa, suddenly exhausted. She mentally reviewed their conversation for any clues that the survivors may have heard. She probably should not have used Barnes’ name, but she doubted that anyone besides her and his creators (what an ugly thought) knew the true identity of the Winter Soldier. 

She heard someone whistle first six notes of “God Save the Queen” and replied with the next six notes as the countersign. She added the “hostiles in area” signal, so Jarvis and three agents who she vaguely recognized entered the room silently, weapons drawn. 

“He’s gone. No time to search. Grab the weapons on the table and let’s go.” She had no heart for more bloodshed this night; they left the survivors behind. They were met by a debrief team at the hotel, and she shared nearly all she had learned, with the exception of the Winter Soldier’s true identity, as she was certain she wouldn’t be believed. She handed over the camera as well; she’d been careful not to include Barnes’ face in any of the shots. It was nearly three am before she reached her hotel room and attempted to sleep. 

The next morning Margaret demanded everything the organization had on former HYDRA bases located in Soviet-controlled areas to be delivered to her ASAP. She perused the newspaper - there was no mention of the fire at the club, nor any indication of multiple bodies found in a Lichtenberg apartment, which she considered as good news. 

The next several days she spent primarily in meetings; both in support of her role as Maria Stark, as well as meetings for S.H.I.E.L.D. In the few spare moments she had, she reviewed the files she requested. Arnim Zola’s name featured prominently in the reports, and she reviewed what was known of the transformation of Johann Schmidt into the Red Skull. In the Krausberg file she found references to Zola performing additional experiments on human subjects, including a short statement from Sergeant Barnes himself.

And now, thanks to Operation Paperclip, Zola was working under the auspices of S.H.I.E.L.D. itself; albeit against her wishes. Phillips had pushed hard for the Doctor to be released from prison after serving only a few years of his life sentence, saying that the country needed his talents and skill. Stark had sided with Phillips; her scientific curiosity and pragmatism outweighing any concerns about Zola’s former affiliation. And so they set him up in a fancy lab with money to burn, as long as he got results. They had all assumed HYDRA was dead after the war, defunct. It galled her to think that perhaps not only was a head growing back, but sheltering under her organization's own roof. She had no proof, not yet, but she kept digging. 

It was Friday afternoon, and she was finally done with her meetings. Looking forward to a luxurious soak in the tub in her hotel suite, she unlocked her door. Briefly wondering at the warm breeze coming through the window, she saw a figure sitting at her desk.

“Toldja you hadn’t seen the last of me, Margaret.” Barnes’ Brooklyn accent was stronger now. “Or should I say Agent Carter?” The desk was at an angle relative to the door, and she could see his hands shuffling through her papers. But she knew how quickly he could react and she was certain he was armed. 

“It’s actually Director Carter, now. I’ve made some progress over the past twenty years.” She closed the door behind her, waiting for him to make his move. 

“That long, huh? Haveta t-t-take your word for it.” came his unfathomably bitter reply. He tapped absently on the desk, then turned the chair towards her. “So, do you use your maiden name for professional reasons, like a Hollywood actress?” His jaw was set tight, and he was nervously bouncing one knee. It took her a moment to realize the real question he was asking. 

“No. I’ve never married. Steve.... was lost in the war.” The armrest of the chair splintered as his metal hand clenched into a fist. 

“So, they didn’t lie to me about that.” His voice was flat, but only for a moment. “He was supposed to stay home where it was safe!” On “home” and “safe” he pounded the desk, leaving dents in its surface. “But no, you and Erskine and Stark had to make him a g-g-goddamned hero.” The pain and anger in his eyes shocked her. She’d forgotten how the two of them - James and Steve - had been brothers in all but blood. 

“He was always a hero. Surely you know that,” she replied quietly. 

“Punk never knew when to c-c-call it quits.” And that was the third time he had stuttered; she didn’t recall that from their previous encounter, nor the nervous twitches. He sat in silence, then seemed to gather himself together. 

He held up a thick folder, and she could see it shake in his hand. “Burned all my b-b-bridges to get this - looks like you’re on the same track already with Zola.” He put it back on the table quickly. “Hope you can r-r-read Russian.” 

“Does that mean you’re not going back to your handlers?” 

“I throw myself on your m-m-mercy, milady.” He stood to make a mock-bow, and nearly lost his balance. She stepped forward, but he put his hands up to fend her off. 

“Watch it, sweetheart. Haven’t you heard I’m a dangerous man? A d-d-deadly assassin?” 

“You’re not well, are you, Sergeant?” He was shivering, despite the heat of the late afternoon. 

“I’ve missed a couple of t-t-treatments.” he replied, rolling up his sleeve to show off fading needle marks. “The shots keep me f-f-fast, keep me s-s-strong. Make me forget. Make me obey.” Her stomach roiled at the implications. 

“So you’re going cold turkey? That doesn’t seem wise.” She was seriously concerned. Apparently his controllers had him addicted to some unholy mix of amphetamines, amnesic and hypnotic drugs. “Should I call for a doctor?” 

“No! No doctor! Just n-n-need something’ t’ drink ‘n s-s-some sleep.” He was slurring his words as well as stuttering, and his shivering was violent. This time, he didn’t reject her help as she walked him over to the bed. She poured a glass of water and he took it with his artificial hand, as the other was shaking too strongly. Once he had drained the glass, she helped him take off his boots, and pulled the covers over him. 

Margaret assumed he would sleep fitfully at best; so called room service for tea and a double order of dry toast. She picked up the folder James had brought with him, curled up on the sofa and started to page through it. She made very little progress, as the majority of the documents were in Cyrillic and she could barely decipher it. But what she could understand chilled her to the bone. 

He awoke about an hour later, sitting bolt upright with a gasp. His eyes were glassy and he held a knife, but in a defensive posture only. "Soldier, stand down. You are in a secure location. There is no immediate danger.” She spoke with authority, steel in her voice. After a few moments, his breathing slowed and he seemed to be able to focus again. 

“Are you feeling any better, Sergeant Barnes? I have some tea and toast if you’re hungry.” He nodded, set down the weapon and sat patiently, waiting for her to bring over the tray. He sipped at the tea and ate two toast triangles, but they didn’t stay down long. She had anticipated this, and had a wastebasket handy. 

“Maybe we can try just broth next time. Why don’t you rest some more? I have some business to attend to, but I’ll return soon.” He laid back down, but didn’t close his eyes, staring intently at the ceiling. She left the room, locking the door and placing the Do Not Disturb sign on the knob. 

After a light dinner, she charmed the front desk clerk into allowing her to make a station to station telephone call to Paris from his office, after she promised to reimburse the hotel for the charges. She double-checked the number in her address book before placing the call. 

“Bonjour, Jones et Fils services de traduction. Comment puis-je vous aider?” 

“C’est ta tante Margot, mon neveu.” 

“Aunt Peggy! What a surprise! Dad’s in a late meeting with a client - want me to get Mom?” 

“Actually, I’ve got a job for you boys. Translating a file from Russian, technical and sensitive. I need it ASAP, I’m afraid, but I’ll pay twice the going rate.” 

“Aw, auntie ... you know your money’s no good with us. When should we expect the courier?” 

“No courier - I’ll be delivering it in person. I’m wrapping up some business in Berlin and should be able to catch an overnight train. Shall I just stop by, or do I need to make an appointment?” 

Gabe Junior laughed. “You’re always welcome, cher tante. We’ve got a spare room if you’re staying in town.” 

“That’s alright, dear. My expense account will cover a few days’ more of hotel stays.” She believed she could talk James into coming with her to Paris, but wasn’t sure he would be prepared to meet a fellow Commando quite yet. “Give your parents my love - I’ll see you all soon.” 

She rattled her key in the hotel door lock noisily to give her guest adequate warning if he were awake. She opened the door slowly as she said quietly, “It’s just me, Margaret.” The room was dim, but she could see James was awake, sitting back at the desk. 

“Welcome back, Director. Surprised you’re alone.” 

“No one else knows you’re here, Sergeant. I thought it might ... complicate matters.” 

“Yeah, aiding and abetting an international criminal makes for a bit of a ‘sticky wicket’, don’t it, English?” 

“I’ve bowled stickier ones. You seem to be feeling better.” He shrugged his shoulders. 

“It comes and goes. I finished off the tea and toast.” 

“Good. I brought you some egg drop soup; I’ve eaten already.” She placed the container on the desk. “James, I have to go to Paris. Tonight. Can you get your hands on travel documents identifying you as American?” She deliberately avoided asking whether he would be joining her, presenting it as a fait accompli. 

“Peg, you have no idea what you’d be getting yourself into. I am a wanted man, by your people as well as my former... handlers.” 

“True, but who would suspect a young man escorting his beloved aunt from Ohio on a visit to the City of Lights?” 

He shook his head with a small huff of laughter. “I’d forgotten just how damned clever you are, Carter.”


	5. Chapter 5

They left the hotel separately, agreeing to meet at the Spandau station by ten pm, as James said he needed time to prepare his cover ID. She was concerned, but trusted that he knew what he was doing. Her American passport in the name of Margaret Cardwell, a spinster from Toledo, Ohio was in her bag and she felt confident with her choice of Midwest accent, dowdy dress and sensible shoes. 

She was a half-hour early, having a few tasks in mind that she needed to complete at the station. James arrived via one of the local trains about ten minutes later. She was pleased to see he’d dressed the part. The arm sling and bandages was a particularly brilliant solution to disguise his unique prosthetic for their current circumstance.

“Ready for our little adventure, aunt Maggie?” He had toned down his Brooklyn drawl, but his smile was brittle. He bent down to kiss her on the cheek and whispered, “I may have been followed. Let’s try for the next train to Paris instead of waiting f-for the express.” A muscle in his jaw was twitching irregularly. 

She linked elbows with him to provide both moral and physical support as they walked to the ticket booth. There was a single 2-berth compartment available on a train leaving in ten minutes, so she booked it through to Paris. They boarded quickly, and the porter showed them to their quarters with a disapproving look. She wasn’t sure if he assumed an improper relationship, or was simply irked that they were last-minute additions to his roster. James cocked an eyebrow at her once he had left. 

“I can go find a seat in coach to sleep. I’ve b-bunked a lot worse places,” he offered. 

“Nonsense. We paid for these accommodations, we might as well use them. Besides, splitting up may not be such a good idea, if you think someone was following you.” From her overnight bag, she pulled out the bottle of Perrier and the cheese sandwiches she’d purchased from the snack bar at the station. “Now, have a little something to eat and we’ll get settled in for the evening.” 

James rolled his eyes at her. “Yes, auntie.” But the food seemed to do him good, his jitters subsided and the stutter disappeared. He stepped out into the hall while she prepared for bed, using the washbasin and stripping to her slip; she was too tired to dig through her suitcase for pyjamas. 

Margaret took the lower berth, pulling up the covers while giving James a verbal “all clear.” She turned her face to the wall while he got ready, and she felt him slip something under her pillow, with a whispered “Just in case,” before he climbed into the upper berth. She felt a sharp edge and cool metal when she reached underneath to check. 

A few hours later, she was awakened by a soft click; it was the lock on the door to their compartment. The room brightened slightly as the door opened just enough for an hand to reach through. A hand holding a gun with a silencer. Before she could react, James pulled the owner of the hand through the door and slammed it shut. In the darkness, she heard the gun hit the floor, then the muffled, sickening sound of bones snapping. A body hit the floor just as the door opened again, a figure silhouetted by the hallway light. James was stooping to reach for the gun when the figure spoke. 

“Sputnik.” And James collapsed; a marionette with its strings cut. Margaret made a muffled cry, almost in spite of herself. The figure turned on the light in the compartment and stared at her with a flicker of surprise before assuming an expression of shock and relief. 

“Thank God you are still alive, madam! We were afraid this madman had killed you.” The agent had tipped his hand. Apparently James’ pursuers were close behind them at the Spandau station. But instead of thinking she and James were working together, they assumed he was using her, a middle-aged American tourist, as cover. Hence the agent’s use of English instead of German in addressing her. This could work to their advantage. 

“I’ve never been so scared in my life!” she blurted, staying in character. “That awful young man just came up to me, stuck something sharp in my side and told me to play along or I would get hurt! And once we got in the compartment, he threatened to shoot me through the mattress, claiming it wouldn’t make a sound. Oh dear lord, is that man alright?” She pointed at the other man, propped against the wall under the window, his head at an unsettling angle. 

With the agent’s attention diverted, she snuck a glance at James. Face down on the floor, he was motionless, but breathing. The gun must be either be trapped beneath his body or had gotten knocked under the lower berth. Either way, it was out of her reach, but she wasn’t giving up hope yet. 

“I’m afraid it’s too late. Let me secure this lunatic, then I will take you away from this horrible scene.” He pulled out a set of handcuffs, and as he bent over James to place them around his wrists, she heard him whisper in Russian, <“Soldier, awaken and obey. Get up.”> The agent was positioned perfectly; she whipped the knife out from under her pillow and slit his throat. 

He fell to his knees, gasping and gurgling, holding a hand to the spurting wound. She kicked him to the floor with perhaps more force than needed, knocking his hand aside and pinning it beneath her foot. She suppressed the urge to vomit as she watched the man die. It had been years since she had taken a life like this, and it had not gotten any easier. 

James was standing now, eyes lowered, back ramrod straight, left arm hanging limply. His lack of response to her attack on the agent gave her chills, but there was no time to figure out how to bring him out of whatever hypnotic state he was currently in. She addressed him crisply in Russian. 

< “Soldier, I need your assistance. Are you injured?”> James shook his head. < “Open the window so we can discard the bodies.”> She made sure they were passing through the middle of nowhere before heaving the two agents’ corpses from the train. This rather grisly task gave her a closer look at James’ prosthetic, as he had worn only a t-shirt and boxers to bed. The surface of the arm was covered in plates like snake scales; they continually readjusted as the arm moved, sliding over one another. 

They cleaned up the compartment as best they could. James’ t-shirt was bloodstained, and she instructed him to replace it, feeling a pang of remorse as he stripped the shirt off without any shame or concern. He seemed underfed; pale skin stretched tight over bone and muscle. Perhaps it was the effects of the drug withdrawals; he’d scarcely eaten anything in the time they’d spent together. As for the prosthetic; unlike others she’d seen, the arm seemed somehow bonded to his skin, an angry red scar the border between flesh and metal. 

Once they were done with the cleanup - disposing of the soiled linen and clothing out the window as well - he sat on the edge of the bed, staring straight ahead. She tried to bring him out of the trance by snapping her fingers, calling his name, even lightly slapping his cheek, with no success. She sighed. 

< “Soldier.”> He turned to look at her, eyes dull. < “Climb into the upper berth and go back to sleep.”> Wordlessly, he complied. She hoped that the hypnosis would wear off overnight.


	6. Chapter 6

Margaret awoke to the sound of James’ feet hitting the floor heavily; it seemed odd, as she knew how silently he normally moved. He scrabbled at the latches for the window, finally sliding it open so he could lean out unsteadily, taking large gulps of the early morning air. She sprang up, grabbing his arm to haul him back into the compartment. 

“What the bloody hell was that all about?” she chastised.

“Upper berth... too small” he gasped in reply. “Felt like the vault. Had to get out.” He was breathing heavily, eyes wide and wild, and she was suddenly uncomfortably aware how close they were standing, dressed only in their underthings. She stepped back and collected her thoughts; filing away his reference to “the vault” while deciding they had more important things to discuss. 

“How much of last night do you remember?” she asked carefully, pulling on a robe over her slip. His face turned white. 

“They came for me - two agents. I dispatched one, but the other...” he broke off, with a haunted look. “I’m so sorry, Peggy. I couldn’t resist him.” 

“I know, James. But we did what needed to be done, and whatever spell he cast over you seems to have dissipated. I do suggest we leave the train as soon and as inconspicuously as possible once we arrive at the station, in case there are more agents waiting.” She checked her watch. “Looks like we have about an hour before we arrive.” 

James got dressed, donning the arm sling and bandages once again, then stepped into the hallway to afford Margaret a bit of privacy. She cleaned up as best she could, then dressed again to fit her current persona. At least the shoes were comfortable. Upon disembarking the train, she pressed several folded bills into the porter’s hand as he handed over their passports. 

“I’m afraid we left the room in a bit of a mess - so sorry,” and she smiled as if she were the cat who ate the canary. The porter tried to keep a straight face, but she noticed his cheeks reddened. 

As they walked into the station, once again arm in arm, James muttered, “Thought we were supposed to be aunt and nephew.” 

“Better to let him indulge his filthy imagination than suspect otherwise. This way he might hold off on cleaning our compartment until last; give us more time to get away.” She hailed a taxi. The Paris guidebook she’d bought at the station had indicated there were several decent hotels in the fourteenth arrondissement, the neighborhood where the Joneses lived and worked, and she provided the address for the first in her list. 

James was not well. He had gone quite pale, and barely acknowledged the garrulous taxi driver. Speaking schoolgirl French with an atrocious accent, Margaret distracted the driver with inane questions about Paris during the drive to the hotel. She took charge there as well, bullying the young clerk into assigning them rooms right away - top floor adjoining, with a connecting door. She also demanded that a room service breakfast be delivered within ten minutes. 

“Remind me n-n-never to get on your bad side, Aunt Maggie.” James commented lightly as they followed the bellboy into the elevator, but she caught the stutter and noticed his tremors had started again. She reached for his hand, squeezing it tight. 

“Don’t worry, Jimmy, you’ve always been my favorite nephew.” She patted him lightly on the cheek, only to discover he was burning up with fever. Once the room service had arrived, she ordered him into bed, as she prepared wet cloths for his forehead and gave him aspirin. 

“Dunno why you b-b-bother with me when I get like this, Carter. I got no brains, no heart and no c-c-courage ... sure as hell can't f-f-find my way home.” The bitterness in his voice brought tears to her eyes. 

“You’re recovering from multiple addictions, James. These are physical reactions you can’t control; there’s no shame in it. The fact that you are here... you, James Buchanan Barnes, not the Soldier, proves that you are smart, you are brave and you still care. We’ll work together on figuring out how to get you home.” She kissed his cheek, and held his hand. 

Once he seemed a little calmer, she asked, “Do you feel well enough to talk a little with me?” He nodded. “You mentioned something about “the vault” this morning - can you tell me anything more?” 

“It was small, and dark, and c-c-cold. S’where I slept between m-m-missions. Never k-k-knew how much time had p-p-passed. Sometimes weeks. Somet-t-times years.” He shuddered, presumably at the memory. Dear god - the cold storage experiments in Zola’s files. Something from the Krausberg experiments plus perhaps the drug cocktail they had been using allowed those monsters to place James in some sort of suspended animation. But at what cost to him? 

“How much of this is documented in the file you gave me?” she asked quietly. 

He shrugged. “Didn’t have t-t-time or the guts t’ read it - j-j-just grabbed what I could n’ left.” 

The knock at the door interrupted them. She retrieved the room service tray, set it on the table beside James’ bed and got him to drink a cup of tea and eat most of a croissant. She nibbled on a pain au chocolate as she debated on how much of the truth to tell him about the reason they’d come to Paris. Finally deciding he’d been lied to enough over the past two decades, she spoke.

“I’m taking the file to be translated, James. I need to know what is in it to figure out the best way to help you.” At his panicked look, she continued. “It’s alright, James. I trust the translator with my life - he’s saved it before. And he’s done the same for you. It’s Gabriel Jones.” 

His brow furrowed with the effort of remembering, then his face took on a hopeful look. “Jonesy made it? He’s okay?” 

“Yes, dear... the other Commandos, too: Dugan, Dernier, Falsworth, and Morita. Scattered to the winds now, but I hear from them occasionally.”

“S’good t’know...” He was slipping into sleep, so she pulled up the sheet and placed a fresh cool cloth on James’ forehead. She felt reasonably confident that he would be safe here, at least for as long as it took her to go see their old friend. 

She ascended the stairs at 50 Rue Beaunier, then knocked on the door neatly labeled “Jones et Fils”. Her nephew opened the door, smiled brightly and pulled her into a bear hug. He had a few inches on her now, having sprung up like a weed since the last time they’d met. 

“Auntie Peggy! We’re so glad to see you again! Mom’s already planning dinner for the four of us and I borrowed several Russian technical vocabulary references from my professors. Do you have the file with you now?” While Gabriel Junior looked every inch the urbane young man, his childlike enthusiasm reminded her how young and innocent he still was, barely eighteen years old. 

“Let me discuss things with your father first. He’ll decide how much assistance he’ll need.” If it were up to her, her dear friend would keep his son far away from this assignment; he had no need to be exposed to the evil men were capable of, even if only on paper. 

“Director Carter - how’s the cloak and dagger business treating you?” Gabriel Senior entered the room and collected a hug as well. 

“Not as well as I deserve, Professeur Jones. I’d like to cover a few things with you in private, if that’s alright.” With a questioning look, her former comrade-in-arms led her into his inner office. After having spent so much time with Sergeant Barnes over the past few days, it was a bit of a jolt to be visibly reminded that yes, nearly twenty years had passed since the days of the Howling Commandos. 

The grey streaks in his hair suited Jones, gave him the gravitas that his career required. The creases around his eyes were mostly smile lines, but he wore the signs of worry and concern on his face as well. She wondered if he regretted staying in Europe after the war; however, considering the state of race relations in the States, she couldn’t blame him for staying in the homeland of his dear Charlotte. 

“So, what’s this about, Peg? Did you sneak some state secrets out from underneath the nose of the Premier?” 

“In a manner of speaking....” she replied, watching his eyebrows climb as she pulled the thick file from her bag, “I was in Berlin and acquired some material regarding on one of the most enigmatic agent/assassins in recent history - the Winter Soldier. I have reason to believe that this file includes information on his background and his training, along with how his loyalties have been forcibly maintained. ” 

“So, the rumors that he’s a brainwashed cyborg are true?” 

She suppressed a wince and continued. “That’s what I need to find out, along with who is ultimately behind all this - while the file is of Soviet origin, I don’t believe they created the Soldier. I think our old enemies are back in business.” 

Jones’ eyes narrowed. “HYDRA? I thought we blew all their bases to kingdom come and Zola was rotting in prison.”

“Yes and no. Zola was set up with a shiny new lab under the auspices of my cohorts at S.H.I.E.L.D, despite my protests. Supposedly he’s being kept on a very short leash, but you know just how devious that bastard is.” He nodded grimly and she continued. “Not to tell you how to do your job, but I’m not sure Gabe should be assisting with this project. From my quick perusal, I noted some fairly ... explicit ... material when it comes to medical procedures and other ... maintenance that has been performed on the subject. But you know your son better than I do.” 

“Thanks for the warning, Peggy. I’ll make the initial pass myself and see what’s fit to have him review. Can’t shelter them forever, though.” She recognized the distant look on his face, it was all too common in veterans and other survivors of wartime horrors. 

“One last thing, Gabriel. I may have additional information on the identity of the Winter Soldier, so if this file provides any clues, please let me know as soon as possible.” She didn’t dare explain further, for fear that he would think she was mentally unstable. “Can you give me an estimate on how long you’ll need to complete the translation?” 

He paged through the file - getting a feel for the organization of the documents. “At least a week; depends on how dense the technical language is. Russians are notorious for packing a lot of meaning into relatively few words.”


	7. Chapter 7

Margaret gave Jones her contact information for the hotel and asked him to keep her apprised of his progress. She also begged off dinner that night, claiming travel fatigue. Walking back to the hotel, she combined her desire to sightsee and do a bit of reconnaissance by exploring the general neighborhood for the next hour or so. She made a few purchases along the way and nodded pleasantly at the desk clerk as she entered the lobby. 

The door was open between their two rooms, but she still knocked on the doorframe before entering. James was standing in front of the window, gazing out across the city, twirling one of his knives in his right hand. He seemed a bit on edge, but recovered from what she had started to think of as his “spells”. 

“How’d it go, Carter?” 

“It went well, Sergeant. He said it would take about a week to finish the translation. I was invited for dinner tonight, but I declined.” 

“Shoulda gone - I don’t need a babysitter.” 

“Perhaps later this week,” she replied, leaving the statement open-ended. 

“Did you tell Gabe who the Winter Soldier was? That I was here?” He shifted subtly, and she felt sure the wrong words would send him right through the window, top floor be damned. 

“No, I did not. I felt that would violate your trust in me. However, I did say that if the file provided any clues as to the identity of the subject, to let me know as soon as possible.” His posture relaxed as he finally turned to face her.

“They knew who I was, at least the first buncha docs did. They got my name off my tags - I wasn’t in any shape to talk for who knows how long. Dunno if it’s in the file, though. I wasn’t able to grab everything... I just hope it’s enough.”

“As do I. I brought some lunch, if you’d like to join me.” He shook his head in disbelief as she set out a bottle of wine, a loaf of bread, chunks of cheese and a couple of apples on the small table. 

“You’re taking your cover a little too seriously, Peg.... a mother hen feeding up a wayward chick.” He joined her to sit at the table, passing her one of his knives to slice the cheese while he cut up the apples. She tried not to think of what action that weapon had seen, as she surreptitiously wiped the blade on the hem of her skirt. 

“I remember how Steve needed double or triple rations out in the field. I can’t imagine you’ve survived this long on only tea and toast.” He winced at the mention of his friend’s name, but she couldn’t let Captain Rogers continue to be the elephant in the room. 

“They never told me how, just that he was dead,” James said, so quietly that at first she wasn’t sure he had spoken. 

“HYDRA had built an enormous plane, filled with buzz bombs. Schmidt was trying to escape in it, and Steve got aboard. They fought and demolished most of the instruments in the cockpit, but Steve took care of Schmidt. He radioed us, saying he was planning on ditching the plane in the ocean, before the missiles could auto-launch. I was on the line with him until....” and her voice broke. 

James came around the table, hunkering down to awkwardly put an arm around her shoulder while fishing a handkerchief out of his pocket. “Did that punk ever get up the courage to say just how much of a crush he had on you?” 

She smiled, dabbing away the tears. “Not in so many words; but he wasn’t the only cowardly one.” 

“Wish I’d knocked some sense into both your heads when I had the chance, Carter. You two would have been good together.” Words of high praise from a man who had thought the sun rose and set on Steven Grant Rogers. 

“And I wish I’d known there was something going on between you and Maria. We could have requisitioned a jeep and double-dated.” Her attempted at light-heartedness fell flat as he looked away, down at the floor. 

“Nah - it was just a wartime fling. Never would have lasted, a classy dame like that with a dogface like me.” 

“You might have been surprised,” she replied, thinking of how Maria had shut herself away for weeks after news of his fall reached her. But that was long ago and far away, water under the bridge. She resumed slicing the cheese, and James returned to his seat and finished cutting up the apples. 

After their meal, he settled into a comfortable chair with a thick paperback he pulled out of his duffel, as she excused herself to take care of some additional business. First up, a visit to a chemist. The incision for the tracking gadget had flared up a bit; apparently her body didn’t appreciate foreign objects invading its domain. She was able to get her prescription for Sulfatrim filled with a minimum of fuss. Next on her list was checking in with the office. 

While Margaret had contacted Jarvis to let him know she was leaving Berlin for Paris the previous night, she hadn’t provided any specifics of where she was staying or what she would be doing there, simply saying she was “hot on the trail” of the Winter Soldier ... not exactly a lie. Remembering well that loose lips sink ships; she found herself less and less inclined to share her latest discoveries with anyone at S.H.I.E.L.D. Perhaps Barnes was rubbing off on her. Then again, she’d always been more comfortable working alone or with a few trusted individuals. 

She called her office number from a public phone, reversing the charges. She dictated a status update, indicating that the leads from her kidnapping the previous week had all gone dry, but she did find some breadcrumbs that took her to Paris, where she would be conducting independent research for at least the next week. She asked after Jarvis, but he hadn’t reported in yet that day. 

“Before you ring off, Director Carter, a radio message from Ms. Stark came in this morning. She said something about a target being located and excavation was in progress. She asked that you rendezvous with her in Oslo in a week and a half.” Margaret nearly dropped the phone. Maria Stark had found the _Valkyrie_. She hung up, still in shock, and found herself back at the hotel as if she had sleptwalked there. She asked the desk clerk if there were any messages. 

“Yes - an official from the train station came by. She said that you and your nephew had left something valuable in your compartment and to contact her immediately. Here’s her contact information.” He handed over a folded slip of paper and she glanced inside. 

_Dorothée Dessousbois - 23 12 79 88_

The note, with its attempt-at-being-clever pseudonym snapped her back to the here and now. She had suspected she and James had gotten away from the train too easily; but had not imagined that her old nemesis would be involved in tracking down the Winter Soldier. The two of them had tangled a few times since 1946 and it was reasonable to conclude that Underwood’s involvement (she was always going to be Underwood in Margaret’s mind) simply proved James’ assertion that he was a “valuable asset”, as well as providing clues as to who was in pursuit.


	8. Chapter 8

James was cleaning his weapons as she walked through the door between their rooms. She noticed he had one of her pistols out on the table as well, which she felt was rather presumptuous. However, it was good to see him taking initiative and doing something productive. 

“We’ve been found out, Sergeant. Let’s pack up and bug out.” She spoke with an intentionally casual tone, keeping her body language relaxed, even while her mind was going like sixty. James responded without a word, starting to methodically reassemble his weapons as she returned to her room. At his continued silence, she was afraid the Soldier had resurfaced; but as he returned her pistol, he gestured at the “Aunt Maggie” dress she’d left draped over a chair and said, “Don’t think that'll quite fit me, but I’m willing to give it a go.” She nearly laughed aloud, his comment taking her by surprise. That was the man she remembered from the Commandos: using humor to defuse a tense situation. But then he was all business. “What’s the plan, Carter?” 

It was a risky plan, cobbled together from too many variables. It brought vehement protests from James, but he didn’t have any better suggestions. They hashed out what details they could and Margaret departed the hotel soon after, a single bag in her possession, and her favorite red hat on her head as a good luck charm. Resting one hand on her hip, she once again tapped out the emergency signal. She had no assurances that it was being received, or that Jarvis had even followed them from Berlin, but she would settle for any possible advantage at this point. 

Margaret spotted her tail within the first block; either a novice agent or intentionally obvious. Nonetheless, she kept to the plan, passing through the massive stone entrance gates for the cemetery, noting the sign that said the cemetery would be closed in less than an hour. Her shadow revealed himself, directing her further into the grounds so as to remove themselves from the public eye. A car soon joined them, and a tall blonde woman about five years her junior exited the back seat, along with the driver and two other men. 

“Miss Carter, what a pleasant surprise to see you again! You’re looking remarkably well.” 

“I would say the same, except I see you still have the limp from our last tête-à-tête.” Margaret replied. Underwood nodded in acknowledgement, motioning one of the men to search her. She was quickly divested of her bag, her shoulder holster and gun. 

“I believe you are in possession of an asset that my colleagues and I would like returned, Peggy dear. I imagine he’ll be in need of quite a bit of ... reconditioning. He really doesn’t do well on his own, poor thing... needs a stern hand to keep him in line.” 

The condescending tone (and unsettling innuendo) raised Margaret’s hackles, but she maintained an aloof expression. “Sorry I can’t be of assistance. The Soldier was gone by the time I got back to the hotel.” She was curious how closely they had been watched, and if she would be called out on this lie. 

“A pity. Perhaps one of your men got there first? Taking custody of such a skilled asset would be a feather in any S.H.I.E.L.D. agent’s cap. Surely your own people were aware of your companion?” 

Margaret shrugged. “Why would I keep the defection of the most infamous assassin of the past twenty years a secret from the organization I helped found and am currently co-director of?” She once again tapped her hip, feigning a sign of impatience and boredom. 

“You speak of defection... but don’t you really mean recruitment? A valuable resource like the Soldier would hardly be put to pasture, not with so many good years ahead of him. Then again, if you aren’t aware of the specific type of care he needs, he might not be such a useful tool after all. He can be quite willful, without the proper controls in place. ” Again, the insinuations made Margaret’s blood run cold. 

Reports of a high powered rifle rang out, scarcely a heartbeat apart, and two of Underwood’s men dropped to the ground. The remaining pair whirled about, guns drawn, in search of their assailant. Underwood, more aware of the challenge they were facing, broke for cover while her eyes scanned the rooftops of the surrounding buildings. Margaret’s thigh holster had once again come in handy; the man assigned to search her had not been as thorough as he ought to have been, and she shot him. That left one other enemy agent and Underwood. 

The above-ground crypts in their semi-orderly rows and columns made pursuit surprisingly difficult; even if the waist-high monuments presumably gave James a clear view of the proceedings from his vantage point. Finding refuge behind a taller stone, Margaret wished desperately she’d seen whether Underwood was armed and with what. The remaining agent was carrying a low-capacity revolver, and she thought he’d only taken three or four shots, so he was a consideration for a while longer. 

She listened carefully for the tap of high heels on concrete; her own sensible shoes were crepe soled and therefore nearly silent. She heard another rifle crack, and the sound of a body falling heavily to the ground. But it wasn’t Underwood, as she had just come up behind Margaret, twisting one arm cruelly behind her, while holding a knife to her throat. 

“Yasha darling, come out where I can see you or dear Aunt Maggie will become your dear departed auntie.” Underwood called out in a mocking voice, using Margaret as a shield as she pulled her into the middle of the main road that ran through the cemetery. They saw a figure rise from the top of the cemetery gates. James had concealed himself behind a ledge barely knee high. “Your compliance will be rewarded, Petrushka. Join us.” Leaving the rifle on the roof, he jumped down and walked slowly towards them, hands clearly visible. He stopped several yards away. 

“Your words have no power over me any more, Vdova. I am no one’s puppet and you can offer no rewards.” 

“So, you have made that much progress? Impressive. But my actions shall still control yours.” Underwood pressed the tip of her knife blade under Margaret’s chin and she felt a small trickle of blood. “Drop your weapons - I know you are still armed.” With a look of pure hatred, James removed his holsters, letting them fall to the ground. The knives were next. 

“Really I should be thanking you, Yasha.” Underwood continued. “Your mission was to retrieve the mechanical genius, but instead you gift us with one of the leaders of our enemies, one with a head full of secrets. All that remains is to secure you both and return to our base in the city. Walk back to the car, slowly. Stay where I can see you.” 

As they approached the vehicle, the man Margaret had shot was still conscious, and had his gun in hand. < "Yuri, shoot but do not kill the Soldier. I need him distracted while I take care of this troublesome woman," > Underwood calmly commanded in her native tongue. 

She pushed Margaret towards the car, forcing her into the back seat. When she resisted, Underwood twisted her arm to the breaking point, the sound an echo of the pistol shots heard behind them. Despite the pain, Margaret used the other woman’s momentum to pull her forwards, throwing her off balance. Margaret batted the knife away while kicking Underwood’s feet out from under her. She angled her hip and elbow to leave her foe breathless when she landed atop her. After a successful head butt, Margaret scrambled out from under the other woman’s lax form. 

Running on adrenaline, she slammed the car door against Underwood’s shins. Groggily, she reflexively lifted her feet, and Margaret locked her in. She turned to see James crouched over Yuri. Bones snapped as James wrenched the agent’s head to an impossible angle. He stood, slowly and unsteadily, letting the other man's body fall to the ground. Blood was running from James' shoulder and thigh, and her own arm hung limp as she propped herself against the vehicle, as much for support as to hold the door shut. A car sped into the cemetery, screeching to a halt next to Underwood’s vehicle. They braced themselves for another attack, but instead two familiar figures jumped out. 

“Agent Jarvis, Professor Jones - glad you could join us.” she panted. “A little assistance, if you please?”


	9. Chapter 9

Margaret gestured towards the figure in the back seat of the car she was leaning against. Jarvis, weapon drawn, approached the other side and looked in. “Good heavens, is that Miss Underwood again?” 

“Unfortunately, yes - the proverbial bad penny. Would you please take her into custody, and call for a cleanup crew?” She turned to see James limping off towards the trees that edged the cemetery.

“James Buchanan Barnes! Don’t you dare run away to lick your wounds in private! You know Gabriel, and I will vouch for Agent Jarvis. They won’t breathe a word to anyone.” She hadn’t intended to reveal his identity to these two men in quite this way, but needs must. Jones was already approaching his former superior officer, a look of astonishment and disbelief on his face. 

“Sarge? Is that really you?” 

“S’what she keeps tellin’ me,” James swayed as he gestured toward Margaret, and Jones grabbed him by his uninjured shoulder to steady him, eyes going wide at the feel of the unyielding metal under the fabric.

“Mon Dieu, the file wasn’t lying. You’ve been shot - c’mon - I know where the nearest hospital is.” 

James pulled away from his comrade’s grip. “No hospitals. No goddamned doctors. Just let me be, I’m fine.” 

“Bullshit, Sarge. Let me take you home, my wife is a nurse and she can patch you up.” He slung James’ arm over his own shoulder, guiding him back to their vehicle. Margaret had caught all this out of the corner of her eye while she and Jarvis dealt with Underwood

“So, what deities do I need to thank for your relatively timely arrival, Agent Jarvis?” she asked quietly, once their adversary was handcuffed and situated securely in the back seat. 

“Well, you did signal, Director,” he responded dryly. 

“Stark said the tracker was good for up to ten miles, not over 650. Have you been spying on me again?” 

“When you said you were haring off after the Soldier at a moment’s notice, it gave me concern, so I caught the express train to Paris yesterday evening. I considered that you might contact Professor Jones for personal if not professional reasons, and he provided me with your hotel address. We were on our way there when your signal came in.” 

“So, Providence in general, then. As always, your devotion and tenacity have once again been my salvation. And not just mine.” She looked over to where Jones was using his own shirt to staunch James’ wounds. 

“Is that really Sergeant Barnes, after all this time?” 

“Yes, but don’t ask how. I’m not sure I understand myself.” 

Margaret sent the two comrades in arms on ahead, before the S.H.I.E.L.D. cleanup crew arrived. As Director, she was able to wave off an onsite debrief, stating she would write up a full report at the earliest opportunity. She did allow the medic to splint her wrist, but palmed the proffered pain medications. She would need all her wits about her for the next hour or two. 

It was after dark by the time they reached chez Jones. Jarvis dropped her off, claiming he had a few loose ends to wrap up, but would return later. Gabe opened the door, his face full of concern but also excitement. “Aunt Peggy! Are you OK? Dad said you and Agent Buchanan were in a stand off against some Reds - you took care of ‘em, but you got hurt, too.” 

She wondered whose idea the alias was. Perhaps it was best that neither Gabe nor Charlotte know exactly who they were sheltering. “A broken wrist, nothing more. My companion had the worst of it - how is he doing?” 

“Mom thought it was pretty bad at first, with all the blood. But Dad’s field dressings helped, and she was able to get the bullet out of his shoulder pretty easily. The thigh shot was a through and through that will take a while to heal. He’s gonna stay in my room for now. But his arm - where did that come from? I’ve never seen anything like it!” It was obvious that his fascinated enthusiasm with their new houseguest had taken over. 

“Gabe, dear, please calm down. Agent Buchanan and I have been through quite a bit today. We need rest, as well as a good deal of discretion.” 

“That’s not really his name, is it, Aunt Peggy?” he replied quietly. “I’ve looked through Dad’s scrapbooks dozens of times. I remember the stories. How’d he survive? How come he doesn’t look any older?” So much for the alias.

“That’s not my story to tell. And he probably doesn’t want to talk about it right now, either.” But at her nephew’s downcast look, she gave him a fond hug. “How about we fix something to eat for everyone?”

There was already something bubbling merrily on the stove, so Gabe ran down to the corner boulangerie for fresh bread, while she set the table and ladled out the pot-au-feu. He had just returned as his parents came back downstairs. 

“Monsieur Buchanan is resting comfortably.” Charlotte spoke assuredly. “Peggy, you will stay in the guest room, non?” 

“That would be lovely, Charlotte. Your hospitality knows no bounds.” She felt awful for taking advantage of them like this, perhaps even putting them in danger, but she and James had nowhere else to turn. Charlotte carried the conversation throughout dinner, then prepared a tray to take to their injured guest. 

Margaret accompanied her upstairs, observing quietly as she checked his wounds. James sat quietly, but seemed frustrated at being fussed over so. Charlotte then excused herself, saying she would lay out some nightclothes and toiletries for Margaret in the spare room. 

“James, I’m so sorry,” she started. 

“Nah, Carter... your plan turned out pretty good, all things considering. Took our mutual acquaintance out of the picture for awhile, anyways. Besides, I’ve had worse.” Having seen the scars that traced over his skin, she had to agree; but she wasn’t only apologizing for the physical wounds. “Didja have a chance to talk to Jonesy about the file yet?” 

“Not yet, but perhaps tomorrow. I just wanted to check in with you before I called it a night. Do you think we’ll be alright here for a little while? We’ve been running quite hard, and I’m not the girl I used to be. In fact, I’m absolutely shattered. ” There were very few people she would admit such weakness to, but James had more than earned her trust. He reached out to take her hand. 

“I think we’re good for now - the Vdova is a lone wolf. She probably came after us with just those agents who were all on a “need to know” basis. Betcha we can lie low for a coupla days, if our hosts don’t mind.” She could tell he was fading fast, so she left after nagging him gently about eating some of the stew. She retired to the guest room and was asleep practically the minute her head hit the pillow. 

“Peggy, what are you doing down here?” She found herself slumped against a cold, damp wall, her fingertips rubbed nearly raw and her wrist aching terribly. She shook the cobwebs from her mind as she turned, and in the dim light, she saw Jones. He was standing just far enough away, a curious and cautious look on his face. 

Sleepwalking, I’m afraid... something I haven’t done for ages. I was dreaming that they’d captured him ... and I had to find him, rescue him.” Her voice wavered as she spoke; she couldn’t remember whether it had been Steve or James in danger, or perhaps her subconscious had somehow blended the two. Her companion had always been as fluent in body language as any other form of communication, and Jones held out his arms to her. Margaret leaned in against his chest and wept. 

“Seeing Sarge brings back a lot of memories, doesn’t it, Peggy?” 

“Yes it does, mon ami, more than you know.” She would have to sit both of her fellow veterans down and tell them the news about Stark finally pinpointing Steve’s final resting place. But for now, she was content to be escorted back upstairs, with a stop in the WC to rinse her hands.


	10. Chapter 10

Jarvis had returned the night before with both her and James’ luggage, using his S.H.I.E.L.D. badge and a good deal of double-talk to convince the hotel desk clerk to hand them over. Margaret was relieved to have her own things, including a fresh change of clothing. The two of them had breakfast at an out of the way cafe, and she caught him up with nearly everything that had happened since Berlin, including the radio message from Stark. 

“And will ‘Agent Buchanan’ be accompanying you to Norway?”

“It’s not that simple.” Margaret then shared her concerns that Underwood had told the S.H.I.E.L.D. interrogators all about their confrontation in the cemetery. She still wasn’t sure if Dottie knew the Soldier’s true identity, although her calling him “Yasha” seemed more than a coincidence. She also briefly touched on her own suspicions about Zola and the potential rebirth of HYDRA, and how she hoped that the dossier Jones was working on would provide some insight on any potential connections. 

“Therefore, I’ve told no one else at S.H.I.E.L.D. that I’m in contact with the Winter Soldier,” she finished. 

“Considering the gentleman in question was at one point acting as your paid escort, shared an overnight train compartment with you, and is currently recuperating from bullet wounds he received while in your imperiled company, I’d say ‘in contact’ is putting it mildly,” Jarvis sniffed. 

She gave him a sharp look in return. “The point, Agent Jarvis, is that while I would prefer that Sergeant Barnes remain with me until I know who I can and can’t trust, I don’t know how safe it is for us to travel together right now.”

“Might I recommend a Purloined Letter approach to the problem?” he suggested. “Resume your cover identity as Miss Stark, with Sergeant Barnes as your newly hired secretary. The assumption that he is simply your latest fling -- with the resultant publicity -- should keep you both in the public eye brightly enough that no shadow organization would dare touch you.” 

“And the reason I tell S.H.I.E.L.D. Barnes is accompanying me would be...?” 

“Primarily the truth. That he is a material witness who has information on how the Winter Soldier was created and how he is controlled. I’ll find out tomorrow how loose-lipped Miss Underwood has been and we can refine the strategy from there. In the meanwhile, perhaps you should check Professor Jones’ progress on the dossier.” 

“You are ever the Jeeves to my Wooster, dear Edwin.” He chuckled, and bid her farewell. Knocking on the door to Gabriel’s study, she was welcomed in, and he poured her a cup of tea before she got down to business. 

“I know I haven’t given you the week you asked for, Gabriel, but I need to know at least what kind of information is in that dossier and who is behind all this.” 

“It’s a bit of a mishmash - there’s few notes going back to the mid 1940’s, but most of the papers are from the past decade. They aren’t in any real order and are definitely not complete. Zola’s fingerprints are all over this file, mostly transcriptions of conversations, but some handwritten notes. Apparently he was working with some Soviet shrink - Doctor Fenhoff.” She grimaced at the name. Another old nemesis rearing his ugly head.

“Have you seen any mention of the word ‘Leviathan’?” she interrupted.

“A few places in the earlier documents,” he continued, “There’s also some notes on some sort of suspended animation process. According to the medical reports, Sarge has some sort of accelerated healing abilities, which led to extensive ... trials. I mostly skimmed those - they aren’t pretty, Peg.” 

She nodded, thinking of the scars she’d seen scattered across James’ skin, and his oblique reference to ‘the crypt’. “I figured as much, Gabriel. I’d like to take notes on what you’ve finished so far, as I’ve some S.H.I.E.L.D files with me that may shed additional light. But before I do, let’s get Sergeant Barnes caught up on things.” 

The rest had apparently done her companion good. Jones provided a summary of what he’d learned from the dossier so far. James took it all in with a grim expression. “At least being their guinea pig all these years was good for something after all,” he said, peeling back the shoulder bandage to show them how the wound was already healing around the edges. 

“I have some news as well,” Margaret added. “Maria Stark - the real one - has been on a confidential expedition in the Arctic. She radioed my office yesterday and it seems she has found the Valkyrie - the plane Captain Rogers was flying when he... disappeared.” James flinched, but watched her face closely as she continued. “They’ve started excavations, and I’m to meet Stark in Oslo in just under a week. The main objective of the excavation is to recover HYDRA technology, but I’m sure she’ll do her best to ... bring Steve home as well.” 

“I’m coming with you.” James’ voice was rough, but determined. 

“I had no doubt, Sergeant.” she replied with a wry smile. “But making travel arrangements may be a challenge. I have done my best to keep S.H.I.E.L.D unaware of your presence here in Paris, although our mutual acquaintance may have made that a moot point. Gabriel, may we impose on you a few more days while we get our ducks in a row?” 

Those few days passed more quickly than Margaret had imagined. Jarvis once again proved himself invaluable, working with her on the writeup for the incident in the cemetery. The report speculated that the Soldier had been sent by a rival faction to eliminate Underwood, with Margaret simply getting caught in the crossfire. Dottie hadn’t yet spoken a word to her captors; but they knew they couldn’t count on her continued silence. The sooner Margaret and James could make their way to Oslo, the better. 

The three of them -- Margaret, James and Jarvis -- started hashing out the details for their journey. Unbeknownst to her, Jarvis had added a twist to the plan. “I think Sergeant Barnes should color his hair, to further throw any pursuers off the trail.” Margaret questioned the proposal, but James was surprisingly accepting of the idea. 

“They do say blondes have more fun ... and I dunno about you, Peg, but I could do with a bit more ‘fun’ at the moment,” James added dryly. He had been a poor patient despite his accelerated healing; chafing terribly at the enforced idleness. Margaret wished she hadn’t mentioned meeting Stark in Oslo to James until they were actually on their way, as it obviously had set certain expectations in his mind. 

Jarvis proved a skilled hair dresser, having assisted his wife with her own beauty rituals for years, and Margaret was surprised to see that James opted to go ginger. “I figure ain’t noone gonna expect the Soldier to be a carrottop,” he smirked. The addition of false freckles made him look barely out of his teens, which would get the gossip rags even more riled up about Stark’s’ new “secretary”. 

As James had no clothing befitting his new role, he and Jarvis went shopping one afternoon. They returned with a smart Prussian blue suit and a selection of regimental ties. James had also picked up an Irish lilt that sounded quite accurate to her ears. 

“Heard it a lot growing up in our neighborhood,” he explained. “Did Steve tell you his Ma came over from the old country as a girl? I got pretty good at imitating her, to make Steve laugh when he was sick. She’d yell at us in Gaelic when she really lost her temper.”

“I can just imagine how often that happened,” Margaret replied with a smile. “You two got into all sorts of scrapes when you were young, according to Steve.” 

“Punk never knew when to keep his trap shut,” James sighed, “Not when he thought he was doing the right thing.” 

“And you were always right there to back him up, weren’t you, James?”

“Until I wasn’t, and the damned fool flew a plane into the ocean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to onethingconstant, whose excellent Agent Carter fics inspired me to pick this dusty WIP back up.


	11. Chapter 11

Margaret had intended to contact one of the local Stark Industries subsidiaries for a tour of their facilities; but Jarvis had his own thoughts on how best establish “Maria’s” presence in the city. With an arch expression, he handed over an engraved invitation to a charity art auction and reception for Friday evening, two days away. 

“Good heavens, I don’t know the first thing about art, Jarvis!” 

“But Ms. Stark does. Mr. Potts suggested you focus on the lithographs, as you are particularly fond of Escher’s work. He sent funds sufficient to cover any reasonable bids, as well as an appropriate outfit. This also seems the ideal opportunity to establish the existence of your new ‘executive assistant’.” 

She hated it when Jarvis was right. Virgil (he’d insisted she use his first name from the moment they met) Potts was Maria’s right hand man, and had been essential to both instigating and maintaining Margaret’s cover. She’d have to send him a few bottles of Glenlivet as a thank you. 

So, instead of spending productive time with Gabriel working through the dossier, she instead had to go shopping. Fortunately, Charlotte had a keen fashion sense and helped her pick out a flattering gown and accessories. She also assisted with Margaret’s hair and makeup; this time they made sure to replicate Maria’s scar, just in case. James let out a low whistle as she came down the stairs. “You’re still a knockout in red, Carter.” 

“That’s “Ms. Stark’ to you, Mister Jamie Grant.” She should have known better than to let James select his own cover name, but the Identity team at S.H.I.E.L.D. didn’t blink an eye when she handed over Yakov Grigorevich’s passport so they could mock up his new papers.

“Aye, but need I be so formal with ye at a such a lovely party?” 

“You’ll be walking a fine line between secretary and consort tonight, so keep your wits about you. And scale back the accent; you sound like a leprechaun,” she teased. He grinned and held out his arm to escort her to the towncar. 

As they waited for the auction, James flipped through the catalog and spotted a Leyendecker study for a War Bonds poster. “Huh - Steve worshipped this guy. Wanted to follow in his footsteps.” He shook his head. “If that punk had stayed put, like he shoulda .... I betcha we’d be bidding on his stuff tonight, too. ” James paused for a minute, closing the booklet. “So, what happened to...” he trailed off, but she got his meaning. 

“Most of Steve’s personal effects were donated to the Smithsonian, although your compatriots kept a few mementoes.” She’d claimed Steve’s sketchbook; a selfish impulse, but one she didn’t regret. “Yours were sent home,” she added softly. His jaw worked for a moment, and Margaret focused her attention on anything but him. James hadn’t yet asked after his family; she’d made a few discreet inquiries and found that while his parents had passed, his sisters were married and apparently doing well. 

Thankfully, the auction began and the excitement of the bidding was a welcome distraction. Margaret successfully bid on a fascinating Escher lithograph, and when James’ eyes lit up at a Mucha print, she bid on that as well. 

During the reception, James played the part of Ms. Stark’s personal secretary to a tee, standing at her elbow, notebook in hand, ready to jot down any notes, including the names of the men and women she spoke with. And when the discussions wandered in a direction that she wasn’t prepared for, he was adept at redirecting the conversation. 

“I do believe you’ve found your vocation, Mr. Grant,” A swing band had set up to provide entertainment for the remainder of the evening. Keeping in mind James’ other role, they joined several other couples on the dance floor, moving just a little too close to one another to be simply an executive and her assistant. “Once this whole mess is straightened out, I may be making you a more permanent job offer.” 

“No thank you, ma’am. I’d much rather get my hands dirty working in a garage.” He smiled, but there was a determined tone to his words. She could well understand his desire to distance himself from the world of espionage. Like Lady Macbeth, her own hands might never be clean again. 

A large, be-ringed hand tapped on James’ shoulder, as a heavily accented voice said, “May I cut in?” James stiffened slightly, and went pale under his false freckles. Taking a step to the side, he made a brief nod, and left the floor. Margaret’s new dance partner was an older man in Soviet military dress; high ranking by the looks of his decorations. He bowed and clicked his heels as he bent over her hand. 

“Miss Stark, the television and newspaper cameras do not do you justice. It is an unexpected pleasure to see you here in Paris.”

“I’m afraid you have the advantage of me, sir,” Margaret replied, with a polite smile, as they started to dance. “And what do you mean by ‘unexpected’?” Apparently her whereabouts were being traced by the Soviets, but she had no idea what else, if anything, they knew. 

“Major-General Vasily Karpov, at your service. I also was recently in Berlin, representing my country at a state dinner. I sat next to your Senator Kennedy, who said you had been invited, but sent your regrets.” Damn and blast - she’d declined the invitation because too many other attendees (including Kennedy) knew the actual Maria Stark. 

“She’s not exactly my senator, Major-General. She represents Massachusetts, while I vote in New York state. But we are acquainted. I’m afraid I was indisposed that evening with a minor travel malady. But, as you can see, I’m feeling much better now.” At least it was in character for Stark to have skipped out on a tedious state dinner in favor of more lively entertainment. “And what brings you to the City of Lights?” 

“My colleagues and I are in search of a little lost lamb, gone astray from his shepherdess.” Fortunately, his eyes were resting on her cleavage and not her face, as Margaret was sure she’d blanched just a little. No wonder James had reacted as he did; if the Soviet brass were involved, they’d leapt out of the frying pan into the fire. 

“Well, I wish I could be of assistance, but I’ll be leaving the city on Monday. I ask you, does it make sense to route a flight from Paris to Stockholm via London and Edinburgh? I’ll be traveling for days, might as well take the train...” He promptly joined in with his own travel rants, giving her a moment to collect herself and make a mental tally of the tangled web she’d been weaving.

S.H.I.E.L.D. already knew that she was to meet with Stark in Oslo, and had provided two tickets for midweek, flying through Amsterdam and Copenhagen. Now, she was sending Karpov and the KGB or whomever on a snipe hunt down a completely bogus path with a different set of dates. In the meanwhile, their actual plans involved a flight to Copenhagen through Cologne and (ironically) Berlin starting the following day. Then they would take the ferry to Oslo, arriving perhaps a day or two before Maria herself. 

The song ended, and she took her leave of the Major-General, claiming a long day, coupled with the excitement of the auction. “What happened to your young man? Surely he should escort you back to your hotel.” Karpov’s demonstration of concern was either a prelude to a most unappealing offer of his own company, or something more sinister. 

“I’m sure he just stepped out for a moment; perhaps he’s even calling for our towncar. I’d told him I wasn’t going to be out late.” Margaret hoped that would be enough to dissuade Karpov, but he insisted on walking her out to the porte-cochere of the hotel, holding her arm in what looked to be a gallant manner, but in reality was a nearly-painful, controlling hold. She wondered if he were brazen enough to bundle her into his vehicle and whisk her away from such a public venue. But thankfully, James approached them -- somewhat unsteadily -- and with fortified cheer, greeted them. 

“And I’m beggin’ your pardon, Maria; I know you wanted to make an early evenin’ of it, but it so happens that one of the drivers is from County Cork and his da and me auntie are relations. So of course I had to get caught up on t’ news of the old country, and well, it would ha’ been rude to turn down an offer of a wee nip...” He looked over Karpov, made a sloppy salute then stuck out his hand, forcing Karpov to let go of Margaret’s arm. James kept shaking Karpov’s hand as he continued. 

“Top of the evenin’, General. Thank ye for escorting the boss-lady. She’s the most lovely gal here, and I were afraid some wolf might have come a-prowlin.” Their car pulled up alongside, and James handed Margaret into the back seat before turning back to the Major-General to tuck a few bills in among his medals. James half-fell into the back seat, closing the door as Karpov’s face turned a beet red. 

Margaret was speechless for a moment, then dissolved into half-stifled giggles, as much from nerves as the absurdity of his performance. “Good lord, James - and I thought Steve was the foolhardy, reckless one.” But then he started trembling, breaths coming fast and shallow. She took his hand and spoke soothingly. “It’s over. You were absolutely brilliant. Everything is going to be all right.”


	12. Chapter 12

Margaret and James stood at the railing of the ferry as it pulled away from the dock in Copenhagen. She finally felt a measure of relief, as it had been a harrowing couple of days. Upon their return to the hotel after the auction, James shakily explained that Karpov was the Soldier’s chief handler and had given him the mission to kidnap Maria. To compound matters, Jarvis reported the following morning that Underwood had escaped S.H.I.E.L.D custody and was presumably at large. 

With those new pieces of intelligence, their plans had to be adjusted. While it was Maria Stark and Jaime Grant who boarded the plane in Paris; once they passed through customs in Copenhagen, they became Margaret Cardwell and her nephew Jimmy once more. Evading Karpov took precedence; he had official government powers, while Underwood presumably had fewer resources to draw on. They also seemed to have given S.H.I.E.L.D the slip, at least temporarily. 

Neither of them had spotted any potential tails during their brief stay in Denmark’s capital, and as they watched the shoreline recede, James started humming a few bars of a vaguely familiar tune. “Not exactly a slow boat to China, but I guess it will have to do,” he said with a wink. 

“Why, Sergeant Barnes, are you flirting with me?” She had grown genuinely fond of James over the course of their adventures together, but they were perhaps too similar in their personalities to become more than just friends. 

“Maybe a little. I figure I could use the practice.” The cocky grin he’d been wearing slid away as his eyes grew distant. “What’s she like, now? Husband? Family?” His casual tone was betrayed by the tenseness of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. 

“Maria has always been married to her work, surely you remember that,” Margaret responded. “Taking the world on one’s shoulders leaves very little time for a personal life. And what she has had, the male companions, the lavish parties, I believe they were mainly for show. She always seems happiest in her workshop, tinkering on some new marvel.” She turned to face him, speaking bluntly “I don’t know how she’ll react to seeing you again, James.” 

“Think you could feel her out a bit, Carter? Find out where she stands?” James obviously still had strong feelings for Maria, but at the same time was well aware she’d lived two decades of her life in the meanwhile. 

“I’ll see what I can do,” she replied, patting his arm comfortingly. That evening, she took advantage of the tiny cabin washroom to dye James’ hair back to the brown indicated on his current passport, and the night passed uneventfully. By morning, the ferry was making its way past the small islands that dotted the harbor in Oslo. They were neither the first nor the last to disembark from the ship, after having carefully scanned the docks for any indication of their adversaries. 

Margaret suggested stopping in the harbormaster’s office to inquire about the Osprey, Stark’s ship. Her captain had radioed in with an anticipated arrival of the following day, late in the afternoon. “Requested a cold storage locker - must have caught something big worth preserving,” the clerk commented offhand. “We set it up in Warehouse 17, down near the south end of the harbor.” 

Margaret thanked him, albeit a little stiffly, and left the office, trying steadfastly not to consider the implications of the request. James caught up to her, and after a few moments, said quietly. “It’s like losing him all over again, isn’t it?” She nodded, not trusting her voice to reply, and he put his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get some breakfast. Things always look better after coffee.” 

They found a small cafe, and discovered the wonders of lefserull with smoked salmon. Margaret did feel better after their meal, and they strolled about the harbor area, eventually finding a charming little inn. They made arrangements to stay for the rest of the week in adjoining rooms and had their luggage sent over from the ferry terminal. 

 

“Peggy, darling, wherever did you pick up that old rag? I know it wasn’t from my closet!” Maria greeted Margaret with a kiss on the cheek before turning to bellow out orders as the stevedores unloaded her ship. 

“Fine words coming from a woman in stained coveralls and a leather jacket older than half the men working here,” Margaret replied archly. “Besides, I couldn’t very well continue to be Maria Stark once the real article sailed into town. I’m afraid Director Carter stirred up a bit of a hornets’ nest while you were gone, so I’m currently Mrs. Margaret Cardwell, of Toledo Ohio - exploring Europe on a budget.” 

“Oh my... and is Edwin your Mister Cardwell? That must be hilariously awkward,” Maria laughed. “Where is my turncoat butler, anyways?” 

“Probably still wrapping things up in Paris - my ghost hunting involved a detour between Berlin and herr, so he tagged along.” 

“I see. Well, since you’re not actually kidnapped, may I assume the hunt was fruitful?” 

“As a matter of fact, it was,” Margaret replied, with a barely restrained sense of smugness.

“So you actually made contact with the Winter Soldier? Did you get him to defect? Is he in S.H.I.E.L.D. custody?” Maria was interrupted as one of her men came up to ask about the on the disposition of a large, rectangular crate -- marked FRAGILE and KEEP COLD -- being brought up out of the ship’s cargo hold. 

“Warehouse 17 - they set up a refrigeration unit for us,” she instructed curtly. Turning to Margaret, Maria’s face lit up. “The ice did an fantastic job of preservation. It’s as if the Valkyrie went down only two weeks ago, not two decades - it’s simply amazing. We found Rogers in the wreckage completely intact - looks as if he’s just sleeping. The medical team wants to do a few tests on him before we return to the States. I know it sounds a bit gruesome, but we could learn so much...” Only then did she seem to notice Margaret’s stricken expression and white-knuckled hold on the railing. 

“Oh my god, Peggy!” Maria covered her mouth in shock. “Of all the insensitive things to go on about ... how could I have forgotten? I am so sorry!” 

“No, you’re right,” Margaret replied, her voice unsteady, “This is a unique opportunity.” She drew a deep breath. “Could I see Steve, before your team....” 

“Of course, of course.... though you might want to wait a day or two, as we didn’t fully excavate the.. his remains from the ice.” Maria spoke hurriedly, still ashamed of her earlier words. 

“A few days more won’t matter, I suppose,” Margaret responded as she wiped briskly at her damp cheeks. “Might I ask another favor, Maria? Don’t tell anyone I’m here. I’ve gone temporarily AWOL from S.H.I.E.L.D. during my investigations and I need to tie up a few loose ends before I report in. Jarvis knows where I am, but he’s’ the only one.” 

“Mum’s the word, Peg. But what about the Soldier?” 

“He’s with me for the moment.” At her concerned look, Margaret continued. “Don’t worry, Maria, he’s not a danger to me, or to anyone now. In fact, as he’s well versed in espionage, he’s playing the role of my nephew.” 

“Clever. So, is he as young and handsome as the reports say?” Maria seemed relieved to have the conversation return to Margaret’s recent exploits. 

“Let’s just say he’s older than he looks, but still quite your type,” Margaret replied before she could quite stop herself. 

“Then I look forward to meeting your nephew, Mrs. Cardwell.” Maria’s smile was wide and a bit predatory. “I think we’re almost done here - how about we get a bite to eat?” 

The “bite to eat” turned into several hours of food, conversation and drinks. While both of them had been able to hold their own with the Howling Commandos back in the day, Margaret had since limited her alcohol consumption to an occasional postprandial glass of port or champagne toasts during parties. But Maria insisted that she keep up, soon becoming more than a little tipsy.

“So - did you and Barnes really have a thing going during the war?” she found herself asking. 

Maria’s face turned soft with a wistful smile. “As a matter of fact... yes. And I think it could have been more than a thing. I know I wanted it to be. He was smart, and funny, and kind...” she broke off, tears welling in her eyes. “We sure knew how to pick 'em, didn’t we, Peg? And then Fate laughed at us, for daring to love during a war.” Maria downed the rest of her drink in a single swallow, and bitterly recited, “ ‘and what i want to know is how do you like your blueeyed boys, Mister Death?’ ”


	13. Chapter 13

Margaret woke up with a hangover, feeling every one of her forty-two years. She hazily remembered Stark’s driver dropping her off at the inn, and making an unfortunate racket as she tried to enter the building. She was in bed, with the covers pulled up over her. She wiggled her toes. Her stockings were still in place, though probably laddered beyond repair, as she couldn’t remember when she’d last had her shoes. She summoned up the strength to brush her fingers against her thigh to confirm that at least she was still clothed.

There was a knock on the door, the rattle of a key in the lock. “Good morning, Auntie,” James called out, more loudly than she could stand at the moment. After hearing her groan, he spoke more softly. “Sorry... guess that night out with Maria was something else. There’s a large glass of water on the nightstand.” Her first attempt at sitting up and opening her eyes was excruciating. She lay back, eyes firmly closed once again, fighting waves of nausea. 

“Good lord, James - did you have to put me to bed? Please tell me I didn’t get sick in the wastebasket.” 

“Yes to the tucking in, and no to the heaving ho - I still hold that distinction,” he replied with a chuckle. She heard him set something on the nightstand. “C’mon, Peg, it ain’t gonna get any easier.” She sat up, making unladylike moans as the pain spiked through her head. James went to the WC, returning with a cool, damp cloth and a bottle of aspirin. She held the cloth to her forehead with one hand, swallowing the proffered pills as she downed the entire glass of water in a single gulp. 

She glowered at James’ amused look. “Sorry, Carter. It’s just nice to see that you’re human.” He’d brought her tea and toast, pouring her a cup as she nibbled cautiously on a dry slice. “Did you say anything to Maria about me?” he asked quietly. She thought back through her conversation from the night before.

“Not your current state of existence, no. But we did talk about you, and Steve both. She thought the world of you, James.” But before she could say any more, the loud ring of the telephone sent another bolt of pain through her head. She gestured for James to pick up the receiver and pass it to her, as she didn’t think she could reach that far without losing her balance. 

“Peggy, it’s Maria. Can you come down to the docks? Right away?” The urgency in Maria’s voice sent a spike of adrenaline through Margaret. That’s one way to chase off a hangover, she thought. 

“Yes, of course, Maria. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Should I call for backup?” 

James’ head snapped up at her words, and he mouthed “Trouble?” She shook her head as Maria responded, “No, it’s nothing like that. It’s just... something I can’t explain over the phone. Something you need to know.” 

“Very well. I should be there within the half-hour. Where should I meet you?” 

Maria was standing outside the door to the warehouse, holding an umbrella. It was raining just hard enough to be a nuisance, the grey sky pressing down on the city. Margaret had taken just enough time to wash up and slip on a clean dress, finishing her cup of tea before leaving the inn. 

She followed Maria to a second-floor office, well-used with piles of paper scattered about and a battered couch at the far end. Maria nervously paced the floor until Margaret said, “Out with it, Stark. What’s going on?” 

“He’s alive.” 

Had she somehow wheedled James’ story out of Jarvis? “Wait, I can... ” Margaret started to say, but Maria interrupted her.

“Steve Rogers is alive, Peg. As they were prepping his body for the tests, they detected a faint heartbeat. It must have been the serum, combined with the cold, that put him into some sort of suspended animation.” Margaret found herself collapsing, sitting down hard on the couch. At her stunned silence, Maria continued. 

“I’ve got Samberly's boy working on him. He’s in his last year of med school and has studied every scrap of intel about Project Rebirth he could get his hands on. Interviewed me twice for papers he wrote for school, and begged to come along when his dad spilled the beans about where we were going. The entire medical team is on a gag order - nothing’s being leaked to the press or even to S.H.I.E.L.D. as of the moment. ” 

My god, how fate was playing with them. She had brought Maria’s lost love back to her, while her dear friend had apparently done the same. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry; a sound that could have been either escaped her lips. Her emotional dam broke when Maria sat down and pulled her into an embrace. 

“Shh.... dear Peg. It must be such a shock. I’m reeling a bit myself. But I’m afraid we’re not out of the woods yet. We don’t know how well he will come out of this, how he’s been affected.” She stroked Margaret’s hair comfortingly, then said quietly. “I have to admit, I’m a little jealous.” That pulled a bark of near-hysterical laughter out of Margaret. 

“Oh, Maria. You have no reason to be. Believe me.”

“Nonsense, Peg. If Rogers pulls through with any portion of his memory intact, he’ll remember you. And this time I won’t simply let you two moon around after each other.” 

“That’s not quite what I mean.” She pulled James’ passport out of her purse and handed to Maria. With a puzzled look, she opened the booklet. She stared at the photo for a few long moments, then scanned through the other pages. 

“I don’t understand, Peggy. What is this? Who is this?” Maria spoke slowly, her voice uncertain, haunted.

“An unwilling captive of HYDRA held for two decades. A mother’s son made over into a weapon. A man frozen in time, mind emptied before every mission.” 

“Who is he, Peggy?” Maria’s eyes blazed, even as they filled with tears. 

“He was the Winter Soldier. But before that, Maria, he was James Buchanan Barnes.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret tells Maria about James; then (after bouts of self-doubt all the way around) engineers a reunion of the couple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am **so sorry** y'all! I've been sitting on this chapter for almost two weeks - I honestly thought I'd posted it already! Shame on me for leaving my lovely readers with a cliffhanger for so long!!!

“But... how? Rogers himself told us that he fell from the train... that there was no way he could have survived; there wasn’t time or manpower to look....” Maria’s words tumbled out as she stared in disbelief, first at the photo in the passport, then at Margaret. 

“It seems to have started when his unit was captured by the Germans near Azzano. Not only were they making their prisoners work in a weapons factory, they were doing medical experiments on them under Zola’s supervision. Sergeant Barnes was one of his subjects. Whatever that madman was doing, it must have helped James survive the fall.” 

“What then?” Maria asked, voice hoarse. 

“We’re not completely sure. There’s a file - something James stole from HYDRA when he escaped, but it’s fragmentary. Gabriel Jones is working on translating it now - that’s why I was in Paris.”

“But doesn’t he remember what happened?” Her eyes were brimming with tears. 

“They’ve done something to affect James’ memory, Maria. He didn’t even recognize your name when he was given the mission to abduct you. But our encounter was the key to unlock the vault; allowing him to start reclaiming his stolen past. But it’s been a slow process. He’s doing better than he was when we first met, but I don’t know if James will ever be the man you remember.” 

Maria bowed her head for a moment, lips pressed tight. “You.... you mentioned him being frozen in time, Peg. Was that literal? Is that why he looks so much the same, still so young?” 

“That seems to be the case. I found some files in S.H.I.E.L.D’s archives that reference cold storage experiments that Zola was working on, thanks to Operation Paperclip.”

“My god, Peg. That Swiss bastard helped create the Winter Soldier right under our noses.” 

“I’m afraid so. James vaguely remembers him being there when he was given his new metal arm. He had been terribly injured during the fall, and they had to amputate.” 

“So it wasn’t just a rumor that the Soldier had an advanced prosthetic. Anything else I need to know, Peg?” Maria was pulling herself together again; the Stark steel coming back into play. She was always at her best when she had a problem to sink her teeth into. 

“Not surprisingly, HYDRA wants their weapon back. We had a bit of a run-in with Dottie Underwood at one point, and a Major-General Karpov of the Soviet Army seems quite interested. I’m also afraid that HYDRA has sunk its fangs into S.H.I.E.L.D itself, through Zola and his accomplices.”

“I go away for a month and the whole damn place falls apart,” Maria said, shaking her head. “So, what do we do next?” 

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to be done at the moment. Jarvis was doing some investigation on the S.H.I.E.L.D. front, while Gabriel said he had most of the translation of the HYDRA files complete and would be sending off copies by the end of the week. Perhaps they could nip this growing corruption in the bud after all. 

Maria started gleaning all she could from the files Margaret had pilfered from the S.H.I.E.L.D. archives and was eager to see Gabriel’s contributions. But perhaps surprisingly, she was less eager to reunite with James. 

“I can’t go through with it, Peg,” Maria said, pacing the floor of the hotel suite. “I”ve changed. Gotten older. What if he sees me, as I am now, and doesn’t know me? Doesn’t want to know me?” 

“Maria, dear - I told you before. It was seeing you... well, me disguised as you, that triggered the start of James’ recovery. You’ve both changed; and I’m sure he’s feeling the same fears. But you have something between you that you can build on. Trust me.” 

Nonetheless, she recognized Maria’s doubts; and perhaps felt them even more intensely. James was at least aware of the passage of time, had some limited experience of what had happened in the world in the past two decades. But for Steve, coming out of the ice, it would be as if it were still 1944; where they were so close to victory. When they had believed that if you fought hard enough, and well enough, with the right people on your side, you could win. 

And of course, she wasn’t the young woman Steve had known and perhaps loved; a girl naive enough to trust that a sacrifice, nobly made, would be sufficient. They had thought they’d destroyed HYDRA, but the evil simply slithered underground, wormed its way into who knows how many governments. She had seen treachery and deceit, compromise and corruption. She had blood on her hands, and could never be sure it was all justified. 

But this was something she could make right, giving James and Maria a new start. Taking things into her own hands, Margaret returned to the inn and made a few phone calls. Once James answered her knock at his door, she strode into the room, envelope in hand. 

“Maria’s going to be here in an hour. I made reservations in your name at the French restaurant down the street. Here’s enough money to pay for a nice meal. Go get your suit on.” 

“Peg, really?” His hopeful, yet guarded look told her all she needed to know. “She still wants to see me, even after you told her? After she saw the files?” 

“Yes, James. She knows none of that was your choice. She didn’t escape the war unscathed, either. Now go. Do as Peggy says.”

He grinned and made a mock-salute. “Ma’am, yes ma’am!” 

Apparently she’d turned into a nosy Parker in her old age; as Margaret found herself standing at the landing, partway down the stairs just as Maria was supposed to arrive. James was in the entryway, wearing out the rug by pacing up and down the hallway. The innkeeper gave him a disapproving look, but he didn’t even notice. 

James stopped in his tracks as the door opened. Maria entered the room slowly, wearing a simple, yet elegant aqua dress with a cream wrap. Her hair was pulled back in silver combs, and left hanging loose down her back. It made her look younger, as did her hopeful expression. 

“Hello, Sergeant Barnes. Long time, no see.” Maria’s time in the spotlight over the past two decades had only reinforced her innate grace under pressure, but Margaret suspected James saw right through it. 

“Hey, Miss Chief,” James responded, a touch of bravado in his voice as well, “What kind of trouble have you been up to since I’ve been gone?” 

“Oh, just saving the world, overturning the social structure, ensuring peace and prosperity. Nothing much. You?” 

“Pretty much the opposite, I’m afraid.” He looked down at his gloved hands. Maria came over to him, took his left hand and held it up to her cheek. 

“That doesn’t matter to me, darling. You’re here now. We’ll figure the rest out.” She turned her face up to his, an invitation in her eyes. As James bent down to kiss Maria, Margaret faded back into the shadows and returned to her room.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve wakes up from his two-decade slumber in the ice, and Maria Stark takes point for orientation duty.

Samberly had been providing regular progress reports to Maria, who passed them along to Margaret and James. Over the past 48 hours, they’d brought Captain Rogers up to normal body temperature. His vitals looked good and the X-rays showed no lasting damage. He appeared to be in a light coma, and the team was researching methods to bring him back to full consciousness. 

After reviewing the medically relevant data from the Winter Soldier file (which Maria and Margaret had carefully extracted from the rest of the dossier), Samberly and his team had finally decided on administering adrenaline; as it was deemed to be less likely to interfere with the serum than other stimulant compounds. 

“If Steve comes out of it anything like me, he’ll feel like shit for a few hours,” James said, as Maria shared the plans for reviving Rogers. “shivering, joints on fire, and he’ll probably be hungry as hell.” 

Maria had also volunteered to be the first point of contact beyond the medical team. “I think it will be less of a shock at first for him to see me than either of you,” she said to Margaret and James. “The medical team has been instructed to answer basic questions when he first awakens, but then leave the rest to me.” 

Maria had the recovery room wired for sound, planning to enter as soon as Steve was alert and responding clearly to the team; they’d play it by ear in terms of what information to start communicating and when. They listened in as the medical team prepared to awaken their patient. Samberly chose to use an IV infusion as opposed to a shot, believing this would provide an easier transition to wakefulness. 

It apparently didn’t take long; they heard an intake of breath, almost a gasp, then Samberly saying. “Welcome back, Captain Rogers.” 

“What happened? Where am I?” The words were slow in coming and slurred, but Margaret would have known that voice anywhere. 

“We found your plane, sir and brought you back here, to Oslo. My name is Robert Samberly. I’m the head medic for the search and rescue team.” Margaret was pleasantly surprised at how calm and collected Aloysius’ boy sounded; he must have gotten that from his mother, as her colleague was a bit excitable. 

“What day is it?” Steve asked. 

“Wednesday, May fifteenth.” 

“What year?” Sharp as ever, Margaret thought. Whether it was his surroundings that gave it away, or if he had somehow felt the passage of time buried while beneath the ice she couldn’t begin to guess, but Steve was already assessing the situation and drawing his own conclusions. She glanced over to James, and he gave her a wry grin that nonetheless didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“1963, sir.” 

Steve’s quiet “Oh” sounded as if he’d been punched in the gut. “Please tell me the war’s over... that we won.” 

“Yes, sir. It took a little while to mop things up in Europe, but the Pacific was a meat grinder. It didn’t end until we dropped the bomb in 1950.”

“How did a single bomb end the war? Did we drop it right on Hirohito’s head?” 

“Not exactly. It was an atomic bomb - my boss had a hand in developing it. The explosion was the equivalent of fifteen thousand pounds of TNT, dropped on Hiroshima. Killed somewhere between a hundred and a hundred and fifty thousand people. Japan waved the white flag pretty quickly afterward.” Margaret winced; Samberly's lack of tact was exactly like his father. 

“My God.” Steve was quiet a moment, then he asked, “So this boss of yours - he’s the one who organized the search and rescue? Kept it going for what... almost twenty years? Why?” There was a note of suspicion in Steve’s voice, and Maria stood up. 

“That sounds like my cue, darlings.” She flashed them a tight smile. “Wish me luck!” As Samberly explained carefully (and a touch long-windedly) that the SAR mission hadn’t started until after the war, and while it was privately funded, it was conducted with the full knowledge and support of the US military, they heard the door open. 

“Hey, Cap. Long time no see.” Maria knew how to make an entrance. She’d worn a khaki jumpsuit (albeit designed by Christian Dior) and Margaret could just imagine her lounging casually against the doorjamb, perhaps throwing Steve a lazy salute. 

“Miss Stark... Maria... is it really you?” Steve’s voice was full of incredulity. 

“That’s what the mirror and my driver’s license say. Though I’m perhaps a bit the worse for wear since you last saw me. How’s Robbie treating you?” 

“Uh, okay, I guess.” There was a pause, as if he were examining his surroundings. “ It’s .... kind of a shock, being here,” Steve admitted. 

“I can only imagine. How do you feel?” Her voice had turned warmer; almost maternal, if that could be believed of Maria Stark. 

“Just like old times. I’m cold, my joints ache, and I can’t quite catch my breath. That and I’m famished.” 

“Well, let’s see what we can do about some of that, Rogers,” Maria responded briskly. “Bring the Captain blankets, pain meds and some hot broth. Sit up for me, champ - there’s probably still fluid in your lungs, despite the serum. Don’t give me that look, Rip Van Winkle, I’ve seen you shirtless many times, both before and after the instant Charles Atlas treatment. Though I personally prefer the ‘after’ view.” 

Margaret stifled a laugh. She’d forgotten how Maria had teased Steve, addressing him by anything but his given name and flirting outrageously, but never seriously. James was shaking his head, a fond smile on his face. “She could always get a rise out of him, couldn’t she?” 

“Oh, but Steve gave as good as he got. After all, he got the whole camp calling her ‘Gigi’. Did anyone ever tell her what it stood for?” Margaret replied. They were interrupted by the sound of another voice, and the rattle of a tray. 

“I’m afraid you’re on clear liquids for the moment, Rogers, at least until we can confirm your ... systems... are all up and running a-ok again.” Maria commented. “But I’m sure you’ll be back to devouring those massive Dagwood sandwiches you and Barnes were so fond of before you know it. Remind me to take you out for kaldtbord. It’s a Norwegian buffet - I have no idea what I’m eating half the time but it’s amazing. Except for the lutefisk. Stay far, far, away from the lutefisk.” 

Margaret admired the way Maria had dropped James’ name so casually into the conversation. It wasn’t just machinery that she knew how to manipulate. 

Steve chuckled, “Still can’t get a word in edgewise around you, can I, Miss Chief? Listen, I...” and then he yawned, which was surprisingly contagious, even over the wire.

“I know it feels like you just woke up, Rogers, but you’ve been through a lot. I bet Robbie’s going to say you need some more rest. Finish off that broth, and we’ll leave you be. There’s a bell on the table next to the bed. Ring it if you need anything.” 

“Before you go ... what about Peggy?” Steve asked quietly. 

“She’s doing quite well for herself, Rogers. Still in the cloak and dagger business, no big surprise.” 

“I suppose she’s...” 

“As a matter of fact, she’s on this side of the pond, on an assignment,” Maria interrupted, heading off his question at the pass. “I told her we’d found you. She asked if she could come see you, once you’re feeling better.” 

“I’d like that, Maria. Thank you.” Margaret could hear the smile in Steve’s voice, and ached to see it again. 

“My pleasure, Cap. Now catch some Z’s”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh - I had fun writing Maria interacting with Steve -- I hope it works for everyone.  
> And yes, Peggy and Steve will be reuniting in the next chapter - I've made them (and y'all) wait long enough!


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret visits with Steve and the reunion goes better than she had thought. She then proceeds to catch him up on her latest assignment - to make contact with the Winter Soldier.

“No. For the last time, Maria, I am not wearing that.” The two of them had spent the past ten minutes arguing about what she should to wear to go see Steve for the first time. Margaret handed the war-era SSR uniform back to Maria. She had no idea where she’d even managed to find it; although knowing Maria, she’d sketched it herself and then thrown money at a tailor to put it together ASAP. 

“Sweetheart, help me out here!” Maria called down the hall. She’d rented a house for them once she’d determined they’d be sticking around for more than a few days. “You told me Rogers loved seeing Peggy in uniform!” 

“Sorry, doll, but I’m on Carter’s side,” James replied, lounging against the doorway. “Not sure reminding Steve of the past is such a good idea right now.” 

“Very well,” Maria sighed, “But I’ve already got someone working on a copy of that red dress of yours, Peg; and you will be wearing it on our first double date!” 

Maria was getting quite ahead of herself, Margaret thought. While it was heartwarming to see that her two companions were rekindling their romance, she was less sanguine regarding her own situation. She had no idea how Steve might react on seeing her the first time, or hearing what she’d been up to in the intervening decades. 

“We’ll see,” Margaret replied noncommittally. “Now shoo, the both of you. I imagine Samberly has already given Steve his walking papers and he’ll be itching to get out of that jerry-rigged hospital room.” Their impromptu medic had insisted on keeping Captain Rogers under observation for 48 hours, even though there appeared to be no long-lasting effects from his ordeal. 

Samberly and his team were still in “full hush” mode, although Margaret wondered how much longer that could last. She herself had checked back in with S.H.I.E.L.D., explaining away her “secretary” at the gala as a local actor she’d hired for the evening. She couldn’t put her finger on why she was still so reluctant to report having discovered James, but she’d learned to trust her instincts. At least she officially confirmed that the search for Underwood was ongoing, and that that Karpov had returned to Moscow. Jarvis was still discreetly researching the Zola connections on her behalf as well. 

As for her current assignment, Margaret finally selected a dusky blue dress with a simple, timeless style. She had taken pains with her appearance, but made no overt attempt to camouflage the passage of the years. She took the bus back to the docks, and let herself into the warehouse with the key she’d borrowed from Maria. Taking a deep breath and squaring her shoulders, she knocked on the door to Steve’s room. 

“Come in,” he responded. Margaret opened the door, and saw Captain Steven Grant Rogers with a sketchbook on his knee, focused intently on his work; a familiar pose from days gone by. Time had blurred the edges of her memories -- made his hair more blonde, perhaps made his shoulders a bit more broad -- but when Steve looked up at her, his eyes were exactly as blue as she’d remembered them. And suddenly, he had crossed the room, taken her in his arms and was kissing her. Margaret found herself too shocked to react.

And then he let her go and was backing away while apologizing profusely. “Peg ... Peggy ... Agent Carter ... I am so sorry! I didn’t think... it’s just....” and he huffed out a quiet laugh, “It’s just that it’s only been about two days since the Valkyrie for me.” 

“And quite a tumultuous two days at that, I imagine.” she replied, smoothing her outfit in an attempt to buy a few moments’ time to collect herself. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to shoot you again, Steve. You don’t even have your shield.” And that had apparently been the right thing to say, as his anxious, wary expression cleared. 

“Actually...” he gestured towards the bed, where his shield was tucked between it and an improvised nightstand of packing crates. “Someone was kind enough to retrieve it for me.” There was a pause before he continued, “It’s good to see you again, Peggy.” And there was that shy, earnest smile that had stolen her heart. 

“And you, as well, Steve.” She reached out to take his hands. “I’m sorry it took us so long.” 

“Stark said the same thing, and then chewed me out for not giving you my coordinates. I explained I’d been a little too busy fighting Schmidt to keep track of the plane’s current heading. I just knew where it was supposed to end up and I wasn’t going to let that happen.” 

“I remember, Steve.” His hands were moving restlessly over hers if he were searching for something, and she raised an eyebrow at him. He had the good grace to blush as he held up her ringless left hand. 

“Figured some lucky guy would have snapped you up already.” She thought back to Daniel; they had been quite fond of one another, but ultimately decided they made better colleagues than lovers. She shook her head. 

“My time hasn’t really been my own. As the war was wrapping up, Colonel Phillips, Maria and I got involved in remaking the SSR over into a peacetime organization: the Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement and Logistics Division. Most of us just call it S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“That title was Miss Chief’s idea, wasn’t it?” Steve asked with a grin and shake of his head. 

“Yes, she loves those clever nicknames. So, S.H.I.E.L.D. is the covert equivalent of the CIA and FBI, with most of our assignments involving something out of the ordinary. When Phillips retired last year, he made me director.” And now she had the perfect segue to discuss something quite important to the both of them. “Let me tell you about my current case over lunch. I assume Samberly finally cleared you?” 

“Yes, and lunch sounds great, Peggy. But before we go, I just want to know something.” His face grew serious for a moment as he looked her straight in the eyes. “Are you happy with the way things turned out for you?” 

“Not always happy, perhaps, but content,” Margaret replied. “However, I have learned never to turn down a chance for a bit more happiness,” she added, pulling him in for a proper kiss. She hadn’t dared to hope up until that moment, but his clumsy, enthusiastic response to her overture was all the answer she needed. At least for the moment, it seemed she was still his Peggy.

 

During the course of a leisurely meal at a small, outdoor cafe tucked away in a cul de sac, Margaret told Steve everything she had known about the Winter Soldier prior to going into Berlin. Yes, it was classified information, but if one couldn’t trust Captain America, then the world was in even sadder shape than she’d feared. 

Margaret then went further, talking about Operation Paperclip -- how Philips and Stark had bribed Zola to come work for the United States; and then how he proceeded to slip his leash to collaborate with Leviathan, Hydra’s kissing cousin that was affiliated with the Soviets.

Steve had started catching up on current events while he was waiting for medical clearance and had learned that the Russians were no longer America’s allies. “I’m not surprised -- can’t believe you trusted that little rat bastard,” he growled. 

“I didn’t, but I was overruled.” Margaret responded crisply, then described how Zola and Leviathan had taken a prisoner of war, and hollowed him out to create the Soldier -- the prosthetic arm, the brainwashing, the missions, and the cold storage. Steve shuddered at the latter, and with good reason. She finished that part of the story with her assignment to track the Soldier down, make contact, and perhaps convince him to defect. 

“So, what happens now? Are you going back to Berlin?” When she hesitated, he responded, “Wait... there’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there, Peg?” She knew she couldn’t put it off any longer, confessing to Steve that his best friend had survived only to be turned into a weapon. 

“We went back, the Commandos and I, as soon as we could.” This abrupt non-sequitur took Steve by surprise, but before he could say anything, she held up her hand. It was going to be difficult enough to get through without any interruptions. “Of course, ‘soon’ is a relative thing, in wartime. It took us nearly three months to get back to that valley, and the spring thaw had already started. We searched for miles downstream from where he fell.” She saw a flicker of grief cross Steve’s face as he realized she was obliquely referring to. 

“Maybe if Maria had been there, had brought her gadgets, we would have found some trace, some indication of what had happened. But she was back in the States, answering the call -- as we later discovered -- to join the Manhattan Project. So our search was fruitless, and heartbreaking. We had lost you both so quickly, so completely - it just didn’t seem fair.” 

“Peg,” Steve broke in, “why are you telling me this? What does Bucky have to do with the Winter Soldier?” 

Margaret took a deep breath. “Steve, he is the Winter Soldier.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret finishes telling Steve the tale of the Winter Soldier, and they walk back to the house that Maria rented; the reunion of the boys from Brooklyn.

Steve’s face went ashen. “No, that can’t be. Bucky couldn’t have survived that fall. I thought he was dead, gone forever ...” 

“We all did, my dear. It came as the worst sort of surprise, believe me.” Margaret then told him about meeting the Soldier in the club in Berlin while she was masquerading as Maria Stark and the shock she felt when she realized who the infamous assassin really was. And how it was her disguise that had been the key to breaking through the programming, to start bringing James Buchanan Barnes back to himself. 

“And why didn’t anyone tell me that Maria and James were canoodling on the sly?” Margaret asked, half-joking, half-serious. Her question seemed to break him out out his somber reverie, and he attempted a light hearted reply.

“You call yourself a spy, Peg? It was pretty darned obvious.” 

“Perhaps I was too focused on a certain endearingly oblivious captain,” she replied, hoping to make him blush once more. She was successful. “We really did waste far too much time, darling.” He took her hand again, lightly kissing her knuckles. 

“Thank God for second chances, then.” Her heart leapt at his fond smile and ardent gaze. “So, what happened next?” 

Margaret continued the story, with the kidnapping that wasn’t really a kidnapping; James breaking into her hotel room with a dossier describing how he had been taken apart and remade into a weapon; followed by their decision to partner up and make a run for it. When she mentioned going to Gabriel to help translate the Soldier’s dossier, Steve’s face lit up. 

“Gabe made it through okay?” 

“All the Commandos did, except for you and James. There’s a memorial at Arlington. God knows what they’re going to do with it now.” 

“They don’t know about Bucky and me yet, do they? Your colleagues at S.H.I.E.L.D., I mean. Why?” Once again, his astute observational skills had hit the nail on the head. She shared her doubts, her fears that through Zola, Hydra or Leviathan or some unholy amalgam of the two had infiltrated the organization and were corrupting it from the inside. Steve’s face grew grim as she spoke, and his hands clenched. 

“We can’t let that happen, Peggy.”

“I’m not bloody well intending to, Steve. Now that we have your fine tactical mind back, we need to make some plans.” 

Steve leaned back, looking at the sky. “And here I thought she only wanted me for my body.” Margaret rolled her eyes fondly. This was a side of Steve Rogers that only a very few had been privileged to see - the clever young man whose angelic face disguised a cheeky, but never cruel, sense of humour. 

She then caught Steve the rest of the way up on her and James’ adventures - the close calls with both Underwood and Karpov, their quick identity change on the ferry to Oslo, and finally discovering that not only had Maria found Captain America, but he had survived his years in the ice. 

“What did Bucky say, when he found out?” 

“I left it to Maria to tell him,” Margaret replied, “So I really don’t know.” 

“Does he want to see me?” The question came out as if he expected the answer to be ‘no’. 

“Of course he does, Steve. You’ve been best friends since...”

“You don’t understand, Peg,” he interrupted, the guilt and anguish back in an instant. “Bucky could have gone home, after Azzano. Instead he followed me back right into the thick of the fight. And I repaid that loyalty by letting him slip through my fingers into two decades’ worth of hell. I should have gone after him. I shouldn’t have let him fall alone.” Steve dropped his head into his hands. 

“That’s nonsense,” Margaret replied sharply. “Then they would have had you both under their control. The Valkyrie would have dropped its bombs, and we’d be living under the tyranny of Hitler, or perhaps Schmidt himself. What happened, happened.” She reached out, lifting his chin so his eyes met hers. “But James is safe now, and he’s getting better. You’re here now as well. And that’s more than I ever could have asked for.” 

They paid for their lunch, but before Margaret could wave down a cab, Steve caught her hand and asked. “Where are we going?” 

“To meet back up with Maria and James. In her usual excessive response, Maria’s gone and rented a house for the duration out in one of the residential neighborhoods.”

“Is it within walking distance?” he asked. “It’s such nice weather, I’d like to spend a little time out strolling with my best girl.” And while she wasn’t really dressed for travelling on foot, Margaret acquiesced. It took them about forty-five minutes to cover the mile and a half or so out to the Stensparken neighborhood. She watched him taking it all in, the cars, the people, the buildings. Not only was it a foreign place to him, but a foreign time; nonetheless, Steve seemed more fascinated and engaged than bewildered or afraid. She’d always admired that fearlessness in him. They got a few curious looks during their walk, but nothing untoward. Margaret found herself simply living in the moment, enjoying an afternoon spent with the man she cared deeply for. She hesitated to call it love ... but really, what else could it be, even after all these years? 

Margaret and Steve entered the living room of the house Maria had rented to see James, stripped down to a sleeveless undershirt and trousers, sitting backwards on a kitchen chair. He was facing away from them, head and left arm resting on the back of the chair, while Maria probed around inside the prosthetic. 

“Hey, Peg, Cap. What took ya so long?” Maria breezily greeted them. “Gimme a minute - right in the middle of some troubleshooting.” James had gone very still, and Steve had stopped in his tracks as he stared at the metal arm. Margaret grimaced; she’d tried to prepare him, but had to admit the sight was still a bit of a shock. 

There was a spark, and James hissed as if in pain. “Dammit!” Maria cursed. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m flying a little blind, here.” She ran a hand soothingly through his hair and stroked his neck, a touching, intimate gesture. 

“I know, darlin’. S’ok,” he murmured in reply, leaning into her touch. 

“Buck,” Steve’s voice was thick with emotion, “What did they do to you?” 

“Nothing that I ain’t been able to survive,” came the reply. James had lifted his head at Steve’s words; as Maria withdrew her tools, he stood and turned around to face them. A half smile curved his lips as he saw his Captain for the first time in nearly twenty years. 

“Of course, I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for Peg.” He nodded in her direction, then pointed over his shoulder to Maria. “And Miss Chief, bless her soul, is the only one smart and crazy enough to go searching for your sorry carcass up around the North Pole.” James paused, his eyes growing bright. “Jesus, Stevie, what in the hell were you thinking?” 

“That I’d already lost my best friend, and I’d be damned if I let them take anyone else.” 

“Never could back down from a fight, couldja, punk?” James muttered, roughly embracing his brother in all but blood. 

“Learned from the best, ya jerk.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaret and Steve finally get their dance. See if you can spot the vehicular cameo in the epilogue.

The look on Steve’s face when Margaret came down the stairs was something she would treasure always. A courier had delivered the red dress just that afternoon, and Maria had badgered her to try it on right away. Apparently she had done something similar for Steve; he was handsome as could be, wearing a dark grey suit with a tie that matched his eyes. 

“You look beautiful, Peggy,” Steve murmured, then, awkwardly added, “Not that you’ve ever not looked beautiful, that is...” She heard a snort from James’ direction, and chose to ignore it. 

“Thank you, darling. And you’re looking quite dashing yourself,” she replied. 

“Enough with the mutual admiration society already,” Maria interjected. “Let’s get a move on.” She’d found a small, quiet restaurant with the promised kaldtbord stretching across the back of the room. Both men ordered a steak, Maria ordered a chicken dish and Margaret opted for the fish. They all found something on the buffet to their liking as well.

However, despite Maria’s warnings, James had chosen a piece of lutefisk. He sampled it, made a face and swallowed visibly as he slowly put his fork down. He turned to Steve, saying, “I thought it would be kinda like gefilte fish,” and picked up the offending dish to dispose of it. When Steve returned to the kaldtbord a few moments later, Maria turned to Margaret and whispered, “Well, I suppose that explains why his...” 

Margaret interrupted, scandalized. “Maria! Honestly - I do not need to hear the rest of that sentence!” 

She replied in a mock-innocent tone, “I was simply going to say that confirms why his dog tags had a ‘J’ on them.... What did you think I was going to say?” Maria kept a straight face for a moment longer, then they both dissolved in giggles. Fortunately, they managed to compose themselves before their dates returned to the table. 

The rest of the meal passed quickly, with lively discussion and good food. Samberly and the rest of Maria’s team were sailing back to New York with the artifacts they’d recovered from the Valkyrie. After Steve had stubbornly refused to take a new identity, Maria drafted a report stating that the body of Captain Rogers had been discovered; and, thanks to the effects of the serum, he was alive and recovering in a secret location somewhere in Northern Europe. 

They were having more difficulties with James. While he was more than happy to assume a new identity -- “I can finally get rid of that goddamned middle name” -- keeping the knowledge of his true origin to as few people as possible seemed wise. They decided to follow the original plan, and (with Jarvis’ help) were laying the groundwork for S.H.I.E.L.D to take credit for the defection of the Winter Soldier. 

After dinner, Maria led them down the street to a club where the house band (with proper financial incentive) was willing to play big band music for the rest of the evening. While Maria and James went out to the dance floor almost immediately, Steve was still reluctant. 

“I’d hate to step on your feet, Peggy,” he stated. 

“Don’t you dare make me wait one minute longer, Captain Rogers.” Margaret replied firmly. As the band started to play “Sentimental Journey”, she took his hand, and pointedly glanced at the dance floor. “It’s not the Stork Club, but I think it will do nicely.” 

Despite having to follow Steve a bit more closely than she was used to -- as he was an unpredictable partner at best -- Margaret found her mind wandering. It wasn’t going to be smooth sailing; Underwood was still at large, and probably still looking for her missing asset. Jarvis’ investigations were only worsening her suspicions of corruption in the ranks of her own organization. She had no idea what would happen after the announcement that Captain America had been found was leaked to the press - Samberly had been instructed to do just that. All too soon, she knew she would have to be Director Carter of S.H.I.E.L.D. once again. 

But here, at least for tonight, she could let that all fade away. She could focus on the music, on the strong arms holding her tight, and just be Steve’s Peggy. It had been a long time coming, but it was worth the wait.

  
**  
**EPILOGUE  
  


Steve and Margaret were picking at the remainders of their picnic lunch, watching the clouds floating by over the Stark summer home on Long Island. They heard the roar of an engine, and with a few moments, Maria and James drove up in her latest vehicular obsession, its cherry red paint job gleaming.

“I’m just sayin’, darlin’,” James drawled, “that the last time I saw you try this, it didn’t work so hot.” 

“And I’m saying that the technological advances of the last quarter century, as well as the innovations sprung from my own brilliant mind are going to prove you wrong,” Maria replied smugly. “Besides, this baby weighs a hell of a lot less than that Packard did.” 

“That’s cheating!” James responded, then called over to Steve and Margaret, “Pile in - we need to make this a fair comparison!” He got out and gestured to the passenger seat. 

“You sit there, Steve. I’ll scramble up on the back, and Peggy can perch on your lap. Ain’t like she hasn’t done it before, and with considerably less clothing on.” James said, with a wink. 

“Bucky!” Steve yelped, blushing furiously, while Margaret glanced over at Maria and shrugged. 

“I’m game. And it’s not as if he’s wrong...” Once they were situated -- a bit precariously on James’ part -- Maria flipped a switch on the dashboard that had certainly not been there when the car rolled off the assembly line in St. Louis. She revved the engine as they both heard and felt elements of the car’s undercarriage shifting around. 

There was a slight wobble as the car lifted off the ground, and Maria crowed triumphantly. “Pay up, sunshine!” She held her hand out to James, rubbing her fingers together. He pulled out his wallet and reluctantly placed a ten dollar bill in her palm. 

“So, where are we going?” Peggy asked.

“Where else, Peg?” Maria grinned, “The future!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh... and we're done. I've had so much fun with these characters over the better part of this past year. I may do a post-mortem over on my [ Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/polizwrites) at some point, discussing the inspirations for the story & some of the research. 
> 
> Many, many thanks to those of you who've been with me from the beginning, and for sticking around through the months-long hiatus. And thanks to those of you discovering this story later on as well! 
> 
> If you're looking for more Agent Carter fics - I can highly recommend [ onethingconstant's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/onethingconstant/) excellent works, as well as those of [ Sholio](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sholio/).


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